A New Dawnguard
by Unusual Dispentry
Summary: Nightmares and horrific visions of a haunted fortress compels a witch hunter to travel to Sylvania, only to become the victim of a spell by an arch-necromancer long thought to be dead. Now trapped in unfamiliar territory, the witch hunter must deal with the ghosts of his family's past while struggling to decide whether his duty to this new world outweighs his duty to his Empire.
1. Vanhaldenschlosse

**If you're looking to read about the crossover itself, and have no interest in reading about a purely Warhammer Fantasy-flavoured prologue, then go ahead and skip to Chapter 2.**

 **Thank you very much.**

* * *

 **16th of Sigmarzeit, 2502 IC**

It was the dead of a particularly dark night, in the rural countryside of the Imperial province of Stirland. The heavy winds shrieked like some feral beast all around them, while clouds of dead autumn leaves rustled and scattered before the approach of a dozen armed men on horseback, closely followed behind by more than double the amount of footslogging warriors.

Leading this expedition was a Sigmarite templar who went by the name of Hans. He was clad in the typical witch hunter field attire, such as the distinctive wide-brimmed hat over his head, the fortified plate cuirass clasped around his torso, and the heavy, weather-beaten longcoat worn over it. The only thing seperating him from most other witch hunters was that he had a habit of leaving not a single inch of his skin uncovered; he always covered his hands with reinforced gloves, and hid his face behind a beaked plague mask fastened to a brown cowl. The mask itself was black, and was modified to look like a raven's face in an obvious tribute to Morr.

Hans' modifications proved very necessary in his usual line of work, however. "Rotbane", his colleagues and superiors would call him, both in person and in professional correspondences. They knew full well just how indiscriminate and mercilessly efficient he was when it came to eradicating heretic covens dedicated to Nurgle. After all, when fighting the forces of the Lord of Pestilence himself, a single touch to the unprotected skin could mean a slow death in agony... or worse.

"Templar!"

The witch hunter did not stop his horse to turn and regard the voice calling after him, nor did he acknowledge it with a call of his own. Those unfamiliar with him would be mistaken to think that he did not listen, however.

"Siegfriedhof is just ahead, mein Herr!" Scribe Bertrand Weidemann had to shout at the top of his old lungs just to be heard above the howling of the wind. His wrinkled hands trembled ever so slightly as they gripped a ragged map of the province. "We can find an inn there to rest and wait for the weather to clear out! Just turn to the right at the next crossroad!"

"I don't think that's a wise idea, sir! We should just keep going!" Sergeant Eckhard Specht, a state trooper from Reikland, interjected. The feather plume atop the soldier's flat cap flailed wildly as he spoke. "Our objective draws near! We can make it there come morning if we hurry!"

"The sergeant is right! It would do us little good if we dither from performing our task!" Adrien-Louis de Salignac, a disgraced Bretonnian lordling-turned-Imperial bounty hunter, clearly had trouble trying to mask his impatience. "Think of the prize waiting for us in Altdorf once we bag this bastard! Luitpold would shower us with riches! He'll make lords out of us!"

"I must object, mercenary! Has greed all but diminished your judgement to nothing? Our steeds need food and rest, and our supplies are running low!" Sieglinde von Pfitzner, an Imperial knight in service to the Knights of the Verdant Field and their patron goddess Myrmidia, pitched in. "We will be better prepared for battle on the morrow should we take the time to consolidate ourselves!"

"Frau Sieglinde, I respectfully disagree; Sigmar has already given us His blessing, we should see to our ultimate task as soon as we can!" Deinhardt Klüger, a newly-minted, overeager warrior priest of Sigmar, shouted in his usual nasally Ostlander accent. "Our men might be becoming weary, but I see that they thirst for battle against the undead — especially the flagellants! Not even an ambush from a host of von Carsteins can slow us down... not when the Heldenhammer is with us!"

"All this incessant chattering is pointless, don't the lot of you know?" Gerhard Feuerbach of Middenheim, a towering mercenary captain, sneered from atop his equally monstrous destrier. "Rotbane decides where his little crusade stays or goes, and chances are, we ain't stopping by an inn tonight. That right, templar?"

Hans did not deign to respond to the men in his retinue, for he already made up his mind long before they even left the city of Nuln.

Ever since he received approval from the Order to take a small army of foolhardy adventurers, deserters, mercenaries, and religious fanatics to Sylvania, Hans made a vow that he would stop at nothing until he had vanquished the unholy source of his nightmares and mental torments. Perhaps he could even redeem the disgraced name of his noble house to its former, untainted glory.

He raised his right hand from his steed's reins to briefly look at the golden signet ring adorning one of his gloved fingers. Emblazoned with the faded symbols of his once-respected bloodline, it was the only piece of jewellery the witch hunter bothered to wear on a regular basis. Looking at it strengthened his resolve and dispelled his doubts.

With a dismissive grunt, Hans took back his steed's reins and cracked them hard against the beast's skin, signalling it to pick up the pace. The vast majority of his men, though obviously dismayed, had no choice but to match his stride lest they be left behind.

The Imperials' journey from the edge of Stirland to the western end of Sylvania lasted all the way until dawn... but under the perpetually gloomy skies of the vampire-infested, former Empire province, one could hardly tell if the night had ever truly gone away.

"There it is!" Sergeant Specht exclaimed, pointing at the distant structure up ahead. "Men, make ready to dismount! Templar, should we—"

All of the sudden, Specht's body jerked backward before he was violently thrown from his saddle. The trooper flailed in the air for all of three seconds before his armored form hit the ground. When he finally stopped tumbling, Specht did not get up.

Hans' reaction was instantaneous. "Halt!" He shouted to his retinue, just as he reined in his overwrought steed. "Everyone, stop!"

The Imperials, in their exhaustion, took much longer than normal to respond. Von Pfitzner and de Salignac dismounted from their horses and drew their weapons, just as the marching flagellants, mercenaries, and state troops began to catch up.

"Klüger, take the Bretonnian and some of the soldiers. Go up and check on the sergeant, over there." Hans ordered, pointing at Specht's unmoving body some distance behind them. "Find out what happened to him. Everyone else, be ready."

"Aye, templar." The warrior priest took up the warhammer from one of the saddle-bags strapped his mount, took up a flickering lantern, and swung himself down, his greaves clanking audibly as they made contact with the blackened earth. "Alright, you lot! Follow me."

"I'm not paid enough crowns for this..." De Salignac griped as he drew a pistol with his free hand and fell in with Kĺüger and six others.

Hans quietly observed his men while they set off on his command. As they drew near to Specht's body, de Salignac bent down and placed both gloved hands over the unresponsive state sergeant. With a grunt, the bounty hunter flipped Specht over on his back.

What happened next was a blur. De Salignac and a few others recoiled at the sight, and Klüger yelped out an oath to Sigmar.

"Is that... a quarrel sticking out of his neck?" Hans had enough time to hear one of the mercenaries ask out loud before the very earth from under his horse erupted. The next thing he knew, he was knocked into the air and splattered thickly with blood.

"Alarm, ALARM!" The witch hunter could vaguely hear von Pfitzner shout out. "Beware! The dead are upon us!"

Hans was momentarily stunned upon hitting the ground, but he quickly scrambled back up to his feet, drawing his wave-bladed zweihänder from his back as he did so. His weapon, a Morr-blessed family heirloom dating back to Magnus the Pious' crusade against the Warriors of Chaos, gleamed as it was drawn from its scabbard, very subtly writhing in holy energy.

The witch hunter looked back to his mount and found it dead, impaled clean through the neck by an old spear that seemingly burst from the earth. Soon enough, the spear began to stir, and the thing holding it — a skeletal grave guard spearman animated by foul necromantic magic — crawled out from its resting place, menacingly bearing its weapon against the templar before it.

Hans sneered at his undead foe, just as more of its kind emerged from the soil to join it in battle against the other Imperials. The witch hunter held his ground until the grave guard made its move, lunging at him with its rusted spear. Hans easily dashed aside the predictable maneuver, and with one quick slash, parted the skeleton's weapon in two by the haft. Deprived of its weapon, the unliving warrior was easily dispatched with an overhead strike that cleaved it in two.

"Rise up and fight, you spineless halflings! FIGHT!" Hans turned and witnessed Captain Feuerbach, bashing undead skulls left and right with his morningstar and his buckler, often smashing his foes into bone splinters from his sheer strength alone. "For Ulric!"

The mercenary leader, accompanied by his own cadre of state troops and misfits, held their own for an admirable while before a hulking creature of the night came barrelling in out of the corrupted undergrowth, visibly salivating with rage and bloodlust.

It was a varghulf — once a proud noble of the Midnight Aristocracy, now nothing more than a feral, hulking bat-like monstrosity, a slave to its own thirst for the essence that sustains all mortals.

"Oh, by the fucking Grail!" De Salignac cursed upon seeing the beast so close to him. He immediately turned to run away, but the varghulf was deceptively quick for its massive size. It pounced on the bounty hunter's back and smashed him to the ground. De Salignac writhed and tried to escape from the creature's grasp, but his efforts proved in vain. The former lordling could do nothing but scream as the varghulf gruesomely ribboned him to pieces.

Hans planted his enchanted sword on the ground, and with his free hand, drew a pistol from his coat. He took aim on the varghulf's head while it feasted on de Salignac's mangled corpse, and after a second spent lining up a bead, he squeezed the trigger and fired a shot.

The varghulf screeched as Hans' shot pierced the back of its skull and obliterated one of its eyes on its way out through an eye socket. The creature reeled away from de Salignac, but only briefly. It turned back around and glared at the witch hunter with its remaining eye with murderous intent.

Hans knew he was in for the fight of his life. Hastily casting the spent firearm aside, the witch hunter took a step back and adopted a defensive fighting stance. The varghulf was now as silent as could be as it broke into a sprint and loped toward its prey on all fours, claws and bloodied fangs bared. Hans waited for the most opportune moment to swing his greatsword, and when he did so, he was rewarded with continued life as the varghulf hobbled back from the force of his blow, its gushing head very nearly split in two.

Despite the massive gash rent into its twisted face, the varghulf was far from defeated. It quickly recovered and closed the distance between it and Hans once again. The witch hunter, caught unprepared by the monster's unnatural agility and tolerance to pain, could do nothing but put up his sword and brace himself when his foe put all its weight into a crushing tackle against him.

Despite his pre-emptive move, Hans was nonetheless swept off his feet. He let out a pained grunt as his back crashed against a desiccated tree, causing his zweihänder to tumble out from his weakened grasp. Gasping with each breath, he slumped down, dazed and ears ringing.

The varghulf, sensing weakness in its prey, made to finish Hans off. It let out a dissonant roar before surging forth, tongue lolling from its open, razor-toothed maw.

The templar's death drew near, but unlike most men in his dire spot, he did not scream nor cower in fear. He reached inside his coat for a second pistol and held it downrange as the varghulf launched itself from the ground, intending to maul the witch hunter and feast on his corpse.

Hans pulled the trigger. His shot blew a chunk off the beast's jaw and sent it reeling, stunning it. By some stroke of luck, it was then that a humanoid profile encased in a suit of black plates emerged into view, holding a wicked poleaxe wreathed in crow feathers and made out of silver. By the light of the early morning sun, it was clear that this newcomer was one of the famed raven knights of Morr.

The knight took one look at the heavily-wounded varghulf looming over his fellow human before a guttural shout rang from his skull helm. Quivering with rage, he surged up to the varghulf from the side and plunged the spear-like projection on top of his weapon into the beast's left flank. Surprised at the interruption, the varghulf screeched and flapped its vestigial wings as it was pushed forth against a tree, pinned under the weight of the enraged Black Guard forcing it back.

Hans gingerly pulled himself back on his feet as he watched the newcomer retract his weapon and heave it up in the air, over the disoriented form of the varghulf. The monstrosity screeched again, more desperate this time, as its frenzied assailant began to cleave into its corrupted flesh again, and again, and again. Hans almost thought that the stranger in dark plates had the upper hand, but his experiences taught him better.

With a garbled shriek of defiance, the varghulf batted aside the newcomer's weapon, casting it out of sight. The raven knight had enough time to look surprised before the vampiric fiend lashed at him with its rending claws, knocking him away. The varghulf strode over to the Black Guard's prone body and made to finish him off, only to be interrupted again by a series of bright lights streaking quickly toward it.

Hans grit his teeth and shielded his eyes upon realising what was coming. The varghulf remained still and seemingly confused until it was buffetted by a storm of fiery projectiles, covering it in horrible burns.

As the varghulf staggered about and writhed in agony, a tattooed, coppery-haired man in the robes of the pyromancers of the Bright Order sauntered into view, smirking. The varghulf, already weakened by its mutitude of wounds, quickly succumbed to another barrage of flames from the pyromancer's hands. After so much punishment, finally, the beast fell over, dead at last.

"Good work with those flames, wizard!"

The witch hunter turned his masked head and was mildly surprised to see another of his Order jogging into sight, and this time, it was a fair-haired woman with a face half-shrouded by heavy scarves that obscured her mouth and neck. Her hands clasped an intricately-crafted repeating crossbow of a peculiar, distinctly foreign design, and by her hip hung a gilded rapier, which its owner had obviously spared no expense in its construction.

"Had you been a second late, Sir Cassaro here would've been torn asunder." The witch huntress said.

"Indeed," The pyromancer helped the downed Black Guard of Morr back up to his feet. "Are you alright, Tilean?" He asked the knight.

"Hmph." The raven knight grunted as his way of saying thanks. Drawing the longsword he had for a backup weapon, Sir Cassaro wasted little time charging back into the fray.

Hans bent down and retrieved his family's greatsword from the ground. He was about to return to battle with his men, when he was halted by his fellow witch hunter, whom had brazenly placed herself into his path.

"Whoa there, Herr Rotbane. Don't we deserve a little thanks for our timely arrival?" She asked, pulling down her scarves to reveal an upturned nose and a mouth curved into a confident smirk.

Hans frowned. "Danke, meine Frau," He gruffed in his muffled voice, not bothering to look at his colleague in the eyes. "Your assistance is noted, but I do believe I am able to fight my own battles. Did the Order send you here?"

"You could say that, sir." The witch huntress nodded, before pulling her scarves back up. "Let's talk after we put these things back under the ground, shall we?"

Hans was glad for that. Eyeing a nearby crumbling formation of grave guards and crypt ghouls, he once again took command of his retinue and had them drive the skeletons back, little by little. In the end, the dead had been put back to rest, while the living had lost thirteen men out of forty-two... at least as far as Hans' expeditionary band was concerned.

The witch hunter sighed as he beheld the carnage that laid before him. His retinue had hardly even reached their objective, and it already suffered so many losses. Such a thing did not bode well for the success of their Sylvanian endeavour.

"Now, I believe I owe the lot of you some answers," Hans turned to see his templar colleague approaching, flanked from both sides by silent-as-stone Black Guards of Morr. Behind them, the bright wizard from before dutifuly took to the task of incinerating the corpses of those killed in the skirmish. "I know you're not one for pleasantries and prolonged conversations, sir, so I'll go straight for the point."

She sighed, looking as though she was mustering the strength to say her next words. "Effective immediately, you are to cease all activity in Sylvania and return to our chapterhouse in Nuln. Sadly, you no longer have authorisation to continue on with your quest, Herr Rotbane."

Hans stared down his fellow witch hunter. "On whose authority am I being recalled?"

The witch huntress kept an even face, refusing to be intimidated by the faceless man. "Grandmaster Thaddeus Kre—"

"That snivelling, corrupted toad of a man? _His_ authority? How many times do I have to tell that conniving arse-kisser that I now work in the interests of Emperor Luitpold himself?" Hans could barely restrain his fury from seeping into his muffled tone. He reached inside his coat and produced a neatly-folded letter, which was formerly sealed with wax. "Here, look, I even have His Imperial Majesty's authorisation papers with me. Let this be the last time I tell him that I will _not_ leave this wretched province until—"

"Emperor Luitpold has been assassinated a week ago..." The other templar blurted out, causing Hans to stop mid-sentence and his grip on the letter to slacken. It slowly slipped out of his limp hand and was swept away by the wind. "...along with several high-ranking members of the Order, including most of the Supreme Council."

"What?" Was all Hans could utter, in his shock. "But... h-how?"

"I don't have the answer to that, I'm afraid. With the assistance of the Reiksguard and a few individuals from the Colleges of Magic, the Order is still trying to figure out who caused the explosion at the Great Temple." The witch huntress seemed reluctant to say. "We do, however, have reason to suspect it was a Chaos-aligned infiltrator within the emperor's court."

 _A heretic was bold enough to attack us at Altdorf? And at the heart of the Order, no less._ Hans slowly took hold of himself. "If the emperor's dead, then... who was elected to succeed him? Was it Middenland? Wissenland? Out with it, woman."

She shook her head. "Neither of those two, surprisingly. It's young Prince Franz who ascended to take his slain father's place. Ostland and the Church of Sigmar tipped the scales in his favour."

Hans scoffed. Karl Franz was too young and too inexperienced to lead the Empire. What were the electors thinking? Clearly, Boris Todbringer was the better choice.

He forced himself to return to the present situation once more. "But what does this have to do with my presence here? Why in Sigmar's name am I being ordered to go back to Nuln?"

"So that you can be enlightened of your new duties and responsibilities as witch hunter captain, of course." The witch huntress explained, trying to put some cheer in her voice. "Captain Bertrand von Ludowinger was assigned to fill a certain, administrative gap in the Supreme Council's ranks, and Grandmaster Krebs wants you to take over von Ludowinger's office. Congratulations."

Hans was far from elated. "Hrmh. I've waited all my life for my request to take a militia to Sylvania be approved, and now Krebs wants to shuffle me out of his way by assigning me to take over a pencil-pusher's inconsequential work. Is this what you wanted to tell me?"

"W-what? No! That's... that's not—" The templar hesitated, clearly struggling to make a coherent response. "I'll have you know that Grandmaster Krebs values you tremendously! If not as a friend, or even a comrade, then as an associate!"

Hans snorted in disgust. "Were that the case, meine Frau, I'd be flagellating myself for having sunk so low as to associate myself with that scheming lickspittle." The witch hunter turned around, his fury and indignation beyond words.

"Sir Rotbane?" The witch huntress called out, her surprise obvious. "I... I suppose I'll meet you back at the chapterhouse, then?"

"No." Hans kept walking as he rapidly lost interest in the conversation. "Go back to Krebs and tell him I reject his "promotion", and his authority. The only way I'll leave Sylvania is through Vanhaldenschlosse, either as a changed man... or as a walking corpse."

"What? You can't just..."

"Begone!" Hans paid the other templar no more mind after that. He turned to his retinue and ordered them to keep moving onward. He won't stop now, now that his lifelong goal was within his reach.

* * *

Vanhaldenschlosse.

The Sylvanian fortress had looked regal and formidable, once. After the arch-necromancer, Frederick van Hal, had the towering edifice constructed using undead labour a thousand years ago, it was said that it was fortified enough — both conventionally and magically — to withstand an invasion from both the emperor's forces to the west, and the dwarfs and greenskins from the south.

Now, it was a crumbling, long-abandoned ruin. Writhing in vampiric corruption and infested by all manner of malevolent beasts, undead monstrosities and heretical wizards, Vanhaldenschlosse was avoided at all costs by even the most foolish of adventurers mad or desperate enough to try and make their fortune in Sylvania.

Hans was no mere looter, however. He was a man who stood at the very last leg of the longest journey he had ever undertaken; a man who seethed with ill-tempered rage and purpose. At this point onward, Sigmar willing, he'd let nothing stand in his path, be they friend or foe.

"The flagellants, although exhausted, are ready to meet the end they so craved, templar." Deinhardt Klüger approached the witch hunter, shaking him out of his reverie. "Just say the word."

Hans needed little encouragement to send more eager men to their deaths. "Let's see them kill as many abominations as they can, priest. Cut them loose."

Like rabid dogs set upon their prey, the flagellants rushed into the ruins of Vanhaldenschlosse. Shouting war cries and screaming litanies, the fanatics quickly disappeared from sight. Hans was certain the next time he saw them, it would be as corpses.

"Prepare yourselves!" Von Pfitzner declared as she set her extra gear down, followed by her longsword, and her bow and quiver. "Get some rest, sharpen your steel and check your munitions! It will be our turn to enter the fortress soon."

"Unlike those poor bastards, lady knight, we intend to come back out of this place alive... and preferably sane enough to appreciate our new wealth." Captain Feuerbach said, sitting down on the ground with his men. "Though I wonder... now that dear old Luitpold is dead, who will pay us now?"

"You will be paid your crowns in due time, sellsword." Hans remained standing, staring intently into the ruins ahead. "If Prince— _Emperor_ Franz would not agree to honour the deal his father made with the lot of you, then it falls to me to bring you your reward for services rendered."

"Hmph. Better you keep to your word then, Rotbane." Feuerbach took a swig out of his tankard. "Believe me, no one double-crosses the likes of me and gets away with the act, not even a templar."

Hans scoffed. "You are only human. You are frail. Greedy and weak-willed. Easily swayed into corruption and heresy. I doubt you'd stand out against the foes witch hunters regularly face, _captain._ "

Feuerbach just chuckled at that. He opened his mouth and looked as though he was about to say more, when the thundering of warhorses silenced him and sent the rest of Hans' retinue springing into action, swords, spears, and handguns bared.

"Halt! Don't shoot!" A familiar voice was heard from the woods. "We come in peace!"

Hans inwardly groaned. He turned to his men and inclined his head to the side, wordlessly signalling them to stand down.

Within moments, around a half a dozen mounted figures appeared: four Black Guards of Morr, a bright wizard, and the same female templar from earlier. Hans took note of how their numbers dwindled from the last time he saw them.

"Hail, captain!" The witch huntress addressed Hans as her company neared.

"I gave you my answer, haven't I?" He frowned, glaring at his stubborn colleague as she dismounted. "I'm not coming back to Nuln until I'm finished here."

"I know, I know." The witch huntress put her gloved hands up placatingly. "You see, the thing is, I was given explicit orders not to leave Sylvania without you. The full extent of the blow to the Order's leadership was... much more destructive than I originally told you, and as it is, experienced templars such as yourself had just become a commodity to the lord protector."

Hans crossed his arms. The woman seemed dubious. "Am I really that needed back in Nuln? To lead in the stead of our slain superiors?"

He doubted he'd do any sort of leading, however. He figured he'd be lucky if Krebs alleviated his never-ending supply of paperwork to fill in as Captain von Ludowinger's replacement.

"At such tumultuous times as these... yes. Desperately, might I add." The witch huntress nodded. "The Celestial College predicts that Karl Franz's reign would be a trying time for the Empire, and right now, the emperor needs the Order in a capable state, preferably led by competent replacements to those killed alongside his father. But..."

She shrugged. "I already know none of what I just said meant as much to you as your continued presence here. If you truly do insist on carrying on with... with entering _that,_ " She gestured at the ruins of Vanhaldenschlosse. "And doing Sigmar-knows-what in there, then you leave me no choice but to ensure that you leave this place alive once you do find what you're looking for."

Hans arched a brow at that. "Well, if you're volunteering to aid me, then I won't refuse extra swords on my side." His voice took a lower, graver tone. "Do be warned that what I'm trying to achieve here will not be easy, by all means. I can guarantee you that death will be the least worrisome of fates should we fail here."

"Right..." She nodded, with some uncertainty. "I'm Ira, by the way. Irina Stanislavovna Koskova. It's a mouthful, I know. May I have the pleasure of knowing who you really are, mein Herr?"

Hans sighed as he reached up to undo the straps to his beaked mask. When he pulled it off and exposed himself to the fetid air of Sylvania, a frowning, partially-bandaged face marred with prominent battle-scars and a crooked, improperly-healed nose was revealed.

"I'm Hans." The witch hunter opened his mouth to say more, then quickly closed it. Gritting his teeth, he mouthed, "Just... it's just Hans."

Silence... then Koskova coughed, trying to mask her unease. With his noticeable cheek-bones, his coarse voice, and overall menacing visage, her colleague had the look of a hardened criminal... or a particularly unfortunate state trooper whom had been sent to fight in one too many wars. Indeed, his stormy grey eyes told tales of countless battles and an equal amount of heretics burnt at the stake by the end of each one.

"Well then, Herr Hauptmann Hans, what would you have us do now?"

"Don't call me that." The witch hunter gruffed and spared a glance at his tired men before turning back to his Order colleague. "Just stand guard for now. My men need rest, and I'd appreciate it if you, the wizard, and your knights kept watch over them for a couple of hours, at the very least."

Koskova shrugged. "Sure thing. I need a break from riding, anyhow."

* * *

Two full hours had passed since the flagellants embarked on their suicidal quest into Vanhaldenschlosse. None of the fanatics had ever returned to their comrades outside, and nobody expected them to. The allure of a death most glorious and violent would be too much for them to turn away. As of now, most of the Imperials were in the middle of a nap, with only Koskova and a few others remaining awake, tentatively guarding over their comrades and keeping an eye out for more skeletons and corrupted wildlife.

They would have easily slept through another peaceful hour, when they were suddenly jolted out of their rest by the sharp crack of a handgun discharging, followed by another, and another, and another.

Hans willed himself awake and pushed himself up to stand just in time to see Koskova and her sentries emptying their guns and crossbows into an incoming horde of shambling undead. Alarmingly, the zombies were all dressed in faded Averland colours and livery.

"Wake up! Take up a sword and stand to attention!" The witch huntress loaded a fresh quarrel into her weapon and speared another zombie's head with it. Beside her, the bright wizard let loose a stream of flames onto a clustered group of flanking undead. "We've got company!"

"Shallya's mercy, we're surrounded!" Scribe Weidemann exclaimed upon seeing just how many zombies were slowly encroaching on their position. The old man clutched some of his tomes to his chest, while his other, trembling hand gripped the hilt of an arming sword.

Hans strapped his mask back on. His finely-tuned senses could recognise vampiric sorceries at work. "Pack your gear up, men! We have to fall back into the ruins!"

"What? The ruins — have you gone mad?" Feuerbach bashed aside a zombie with his buckler, then crushed another's head with his morningstar. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, don't you think, templar?!"

"Feel free to stay here and stave them off, sellsword!" Von Pfitzner picked up the essentials among her travelling gear before falling in with Hans and the others. "Between you and your men, you've enough flesh to keep these bastards feasting for an hour, at least!"

The retreat into Vanhaldenschlosse was a slow and exhausting endeavour, but thanks to Hans and Koskova's leadership, only two of their soldiers were dragged into the horde and eaten. Upon making their way to the fortress' fallen gates, Koskova's bright wizard companion directed his flames to the ground between the Imperials and the decaying tide of living dead, immolating those zombies caught in the area and providing a temporary barrier of magical fire to fend off the rest.

"You can't keep those flames burning forever, wizard." Koskova slumped against a wall, hands clutching her crossbow and breathing heavily. "We should keep moving. The sooner we find what we're looking for here, the sooner we can find an exit and leave Sylvania for good."

"Agreed." Hans nodded, turning to face the darkened interiors of the fortress ahead. "Be wary. Restless horrors and malicious contraptions lie in abundance here, in these ruins. Every step could mean death."

"Sigmar guides his flock, even in places where corruption is at its strongest," Klüger, ever the overzealous warrior priest, confidently strode up to the front of the group after lighting his latern.

"Eager to die today, aren't you, Sigmarite?" Feuerbach arched a brow as Klüger pushed past him.

The warrior priest turned around to face the mercenary, but kept walking. "Faith sustains where darkness congregates, _Ulrican_. I will lead the—"

There was a tiny _click_ , and suddenly, Klüger was whisked away from sight, leaving behind the still-burning lantern he was carrying on the floor.

Most of the Imperials stood frozen on their spots, locked in fear and uncertainty. They could only watch as Hans carefully walked over to where Klüger had vanished, bent down and picked up his lantern, then used it to light the path ahead.

The sight that awaited them was enough to terrify one of the mercenaries into dropping her weapon in sheer shock. Up ahead, Klüger's lifeless body hung from the wall, along with three of the flagellants. Close inspection revealed that each of the unfortunate men were pinned up there by massive pikes through the chest.

"Volkmar's breath." Hans muttered an oath upon finding out that one of the dead flagellants above still twitched impotently, even as his entrails slowly slid downward. He will not forget the horrid sight any time soon.

Without taking a single step, the templar moved his lantern to the side, and sure enough, obscured by centuries of accumulating moss and dust and barely visible by lantern-light, was an ancient Imperial bolt thrower. From the looks of things, the siege engine was rigged to shoot anyone who'd be careless enough to step on the rusted pressure plate just a few metres in front of it.

"I'm getting too old for this..." Weidemann griped, hand still clutched to his chest.

Hans grimaced and turned to regard his unnerved men behind him. "Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer... as is blind faith. Unless someone else would like to step forward, I suggest you all follow my lead from now on."

"No objections from me, templar." Von Pfitzner shook her head.

"Go on ahead and lead the way for us, mate." Feuerbach tried to feign indifference and mask his fear.

Koskova remained silent, looking like she was still in shock at the warrior priest's abrupt end.

The rest of the men did not appear to object to Hans' command, despite all that happened. Nodding in grim satisfaction, without another word, the witch hunter turned and began to move further into the ruins.

Navigating the darkened interiors of Vanhaldenschlosse by torchlight was much more nerve-wracking than Hans originally figured. Despite all his years hunting monsters, putting Chaos-worshipping covens to the torch, and rooting out vampires disguised as Imperial citizenry, Hans still could not help but tense up at every little noise he heard, and the hairs on his body stood on their ends whenever it seemed to him that danger was inevitable. When monsters came running out of their hiding places and traps sprung against his company, Hans felt himself hesitate once or twice, costing the group more than a few lives.

The witch hunter was silently appalled at how badly this place seemed to affect him. It appeared as though the closer he was to his lifelong goal, the more he began to lose his grip. He was at the cusp of fulfilling his purpose... but did he truly aspire to be rid of the most important reason why he even bothered waking up every morning?

"Captain Hans!"

Koskova's shout from behind brought Hans back to the land of reality. Under his breath, he chided himself for thinking such things. Of course it was what he wanted; Hans would want nothing more than to put an end to the nightmares at long last, and live his life as a free man should.

"We should rest a while, for Herr Weidemann's sake, at least!" Koskova continued to shout. "Please. I don't think he can walk another step! His heart!"

In any other situation, Hans would not hesitate to care for the well-being of each of his soldiers. Scribe Weidemann served him faithfully ever since he joined the templar's retinue, and Hans would have seen to the old man's needs if he can. Now that his objective was within his grasp, however, Hans was a markedly different man from before, and it was only until much internal debate did he come to a decision.

"Mercenary, leave some of your men behind here." Hans ordered Captain Feuerbach. "Scribe Weidemann is not in a condition to keep up with us, and he needs protection while he waits for us to return. I trust you do not have any objections to that?"

Feuerbach did not try to hide his displeasure. "In case you haven't figured it out yet from the amount of bloody skeletons in the previous room that ambushed us, we're going to need all the men we can get by the end of this trip. Just leave this old bastard behind; he's done nothing but read his thrice-damned books, eat our rations, and slow us down all week long."

"Hold it right there, hireling!" Von Pfitzner stepped forth, bearing down on Feuerbach. "I always thought you were heartless, but I never figured you're not above leaving a frail old man behind to be killed... or worse!"

"He knew the risks when he volunteered to tag along instead of keeping to his library in Nuln where he belongs, ranger." Feuerbach scoffed. "We gave him every opportunity to back out, and he didn't. Whatever happens to him here is because of his own damned fau—"

The mercenary captain was cut short by a rough shove from the lady knight. The force of von Pfitzner's push combined with its unexpectedness proved enough to make Feuerbach lose his balance. He would have had fallen on his back had it not hit a wall.

Hans turned to von Pfitzner, a scolding, condescending mouthful already at the tip of his tongue, when something strange happened.

Feuerbach, clearly too furious for words judging by his snarling expression, moved his gauntleted hand to draw his morningstar, when the wall behind him suddenly gave way. Hans heard another clicking sound, followed by the distinctive snapping hiss of ancient magical seals powering up.

The witch hunter blanched, and his eyes widened in fear.

"TAKE COVER!" He had enough time to shout, just before a massive explosion bathed Feuerbach's area in flames. When the smoke cleared and his lungs could taste clean air again, Hans was met with the macabre sight of seven of his remaining men on the floor as charred corpses, with a few others suffering injuries. As for Feuerbach... bits and pieces of him lay strewn all around the place.

The worst had yet to come, however. The Imperials were still in the process of regrouping, when a dreadful howl echoed along the corridor. The ungodly noise continued for a disturbingly long moment, and indeed, it never seemed to stop completely. The message was clear: a horde of the unliving would soon come to throw themselves against their unwanted guests.

"We need to get out of here." Hans gruffed, adjusting his hat and brushing the ashes from his coat. He briefly looked down at Scribe Weidemann's untouched body and took note of how the old man clutched at his chest, even in death.

"Come on! This way!" He wasted no more time as he took off, deeper into the ruins.

Koskova, her black knights, and what little remained of his retinue had no choice but to follow after Hans. The Imperials braved more hidden traps and undead lying in wait, and many more lost their lives in the hours that followed. In the end, they were whittled down to nine men: von Pfitzner, Koskova, her bright wizard companion, two Black Guards of Morr, two mercenaries, one state trooper, and Hans himself.

"You've brought us deep into hell itself, Hauptmann," Koskova spoke up as they carefully strode through the haunted corridors. "I've lost a lot of good men..."

Von Pfitzner remained silent, clearly haunted by what had transpired thus far, and remorseful of her rash action earlier.

"As have I." Hans muttered back to Koskova in a dispassionate monotone. "But it is to be expected."

Koskova wrinkled her nose in poorly-concealed disgust. "You seem... strangely untroubled by this."

"The road we tread is paved with the blood of comrades and innocents, Koskova." Hans kept walking, his eyes searching for hidden dangers. "How you managed to reach your station without realising this fact is beyond me."

Koskova did not respond to that. Hans did not know whether she did so because she agreed with him or not, nor did he wish to. Nothing more was said until they reached a corridor containing dusty crates, broken vases, several suits of ancient ringmail and plate armour on display, and a rusty plate gauntlet sitting atop a pedestal. Further inspection of the corridor, however, revealed that it seemingly led to another wall.

"There's nothing here, mein Herr." Koskova examined her surroundings. "Yet another dead end. Best we turn back before we draw more attention."

Koskova signalled for her men to turn around, but stopped upon seeing Hans rooted in place, staring at the pedestal at the centre of the room. "Sir? What troubles you?"

"I can feel it, Koskova." Hans said, as though in a trance. "He's near... and he beckons us closer. Can't you hear him speak?"

"I... no, I can't." The witch huntress frowned. "Who... who are you talking about?"

Slowly, gently, Hans lifted his gloved hand and removed the golden signet ring from his finger. "Him." The witch hunter strode over to the pedestal, eyes fixed on the gauntlet on top of it. "The one behind it all."

After putting his ring around one of the fingers on the gauntlet, an audible hum started to emanate from the wall at the end of the corner. Hans stood back, and his company observed as the wall shifted this way and that, before being swallowed by the floor. Behind it, the hidden entrance to a secret corner of Vanhaldenschlosse was revealed. Somewhat unusually, it seemed that the entrance remained lined with empty suits of armour standing guard.

Koskova checked the bolts she had left in her quiver, eyeing the mock-knights with some suspicion. Her charge's mission draws to a close, but she had a feeling that this nightmare was yet to end. "What do you think lies beyond that hallway, Hauptmann?"

"Our tomb, if we're not careful." Hans brandished his zweihänder over his shoulder, steely determination adorning his grimacing countenance. "Follow me. The end awaits."

Thus did the Imperials march off to follow their leader once more, relieved that their journey would soon end, but still wary of threats. Their readiness would have been enough to save their lives had they been facing mundane foes that day, but alas, there was nothing mundane about the entity that made its lair deep within that concealed room they had to enter.

"Hm. I'm starting to feel cold, all the sudden." Von Pfitzner said out loud as the party marched onward. With her platemailed bulk, she tried not to knock over the suits of armour just to her sides.

"Yes... I feel as though I'm on a journey back to the old country." Koskova mused idly, her gaze becoming unfocused. "It's been a long time since I've been to Kislev."

"Quiet. This is not the time for foolish reminiscing." Hans chided his colleague. "You will learn to fear the cold; this means our quarry is near... and all too likely to be watching us right no—"

An absurdly strong gust of bone-chilling wind suddenly blew over the Imperials from behind, instantly extinguishing their torches and lanterns, consuming them in pitch-blackness.

"Aaah! Fucking bollocks!" One of the mercenaries exclaimed at the sudden darkness.

"Quiet! You'll draw the undead to us!" Koskova's voice hissed.

Hans was more concerned about the noisy shuffling of metal and chains he started hearing as soon as the lights went out. He fumbled for a matchbox in his coat. It was a pain trying to strike a match in total darkness, but he managed it, after a while.

With a flaming match between his fingers, Hans waved it around. He was greeted by the sight of one of his men being run through by a rusty bastard sword, held by one of the many previously-inanimate suits of armour now assailing his company.

Cursing an oath, the witch hunter tossed the match aside and inverted his greatsword, holding it by the blade with both gloved hands. When another of the hostile suits of armour approached him, spiked mace drawn and decaying shield held up, he took a swing at it, smashing his weapon's crossguard into the thing's shield. His blow was much more devastating than he envisioned it; the rotten shield had splintered at the force of his strike, and the animated suit holding it lost its gauntlet in the process.

With a snarl, Hans thrust out with his weapon, striking the construct by the helmet with his blade's pommel. The templar's blow was enough to shatter the rusty helm and neutralise his target, sending it crumbling down on the floor in a heap of discarded plates... but there stood another three to take its place.

"Form a circle! Don't let these tin cans reach you!" Koskova shouted to her men. To her side, her bright wizard retainer channelled a spell for a second before unleashing a wave of heat above everyone's heads, igniting the torch sconces mounted to the wall in the process and providing more than enough illumination.

Unfortunately, this also revealed the sheer immensity of the animated steel phalanx slowly encroaching upon the Imperials.

A mercenary bashed aside a walking suit with his buckler and neutralised another with one well-timed swing of his warhammer, only to catch a thrown axe to the head. One of Koskova's Black Guards shielded his comrade with his armoured body, but even Morrite obsidian platemail could not hold out against a dozen attacks from the front at once; the brave knight and his charge died together as they were systematically stabbed and hewn apart.

"We can't hold out against this tide!" Von Pfitzner let loose an arrow into a suit, reached for her quiver for another, but her hand came up empty. Throwing aside her bow, the knight unsheathed her longsword and hacked aside her attacker. "Go! Get away from here! I'll hold them off!"

Koskova kicked back a shambling suit of armour, then turned aside and riddled another with a quick repeater crossbow volley. "But to where?!"

"Hrgh!" Hans parried a crushing blow from a suit's longsword, visibly straining his arms as he did so. With one quick movement, however, he dislodged his blade and smashed its crossguard into his foe's helm, battering it. Turning to his side, he pointed deeper into the illuminated path. "Through here! Quickly!"

Koskova moved over to von Pfitzner and clasped her pauldron for a brief second before she turned to what's left of her men and Hans'. "Follow the captain! Move, move, move!"

The rush to supposed safety was paved with many more horrors awaiting those who passed them. Each step they took was paid for in blood and death, metre by bloody metre took its toll on the already depleted Imperial ranks, and by the time they reached a laboratory of some sort, only Hans, Koskova, her bright wizard companion, Sir Cassaro the Tilean raven knight, and the single state trooper remained alive.

"Seal the corridor with flames!" Koskova exclaimed. "Do it, magister!"

The bright wizard conjured up flaming glyphs in the air and channelled another spell, but a crossbow bolt to the chest interrupted him. The mage gasped, coughed up some blood, then started casting again, but another quarrel to the throat knocked him to the floor and silenced him for good.

"Guntram!" Koskova shouldered her crossbow and made to run to her retainer's body, but her path was suddenly blocked by more of the numberless suits of animated armour. "No..."

"Make a stand! Here, and now!" Hans shouted, grim and undaunted. He evaded a greatsword thrust and swiftly decapitated his attacker. "Make the end memorable! For the emperor! For Sigmar!"

Koskova shook her head forcefully. When she looked back up, a look of intense fury overtook her previously delicate features. "For Franz! For Sigmar!" The witch huntress echoed as she unleashed another barrage of steel-tipped quarrels on the enemy.

Breathing heavily through his helm, Sir Cassaro pulled out the rusty broadsword sticking out of a gap between his plates with one swift motion. Summoning his last reserves of strength and rage for the unholy, the Black Guard broke his oath of silence and bellowed a guttural cry of, "MORR!" before hefting his poleaxe and barrelling into a nearby phalanx of animated armour.

The lone state trooper, the only man in Hans' retinue still accounted for, wiped the sweat and blood from his face and held his spear downrange, teeth bared into a snarl. More of the suits came for him... but he was ready.

The four of them continued to fight despite the odds, their final stand managing to last much longer than it should have, were it not for their utter dedication to taking down as many of their unnatural foes as they could.

Still, in the end, not even their zeal and sheer desperation could grant them victory from the jaws of defeat, as more and more of the animated suits of armour marched forth to replace the ones vanquished by the Imperials.

Hans could only watch from the side as Sir Cassaro was impaled and slashed at several times in quick succession by spears and halberds, the battered raven knight crumbling to the floor soon after.

Behind Cassaro, the state trooper took one last thrust of his spear at his foe before dropping to a knee, gasping and utterly exhausted. All it took was a single hit to the helmet with a mace to drop him.

As for Koskova, she had run out of bolts long ago, and had been forced to resort to her rapier. Unfortunately for her, a duelist's weapon was not the optimal tool against multiple foes, and she was easily disarmed and subdued in short order.

Scowling, the witch hunter sidestepped yet another strike from one of his attackers and dropped down to the floor just in time to avoid a hail of crossbow bolts heading his way. He lashed out with his zweihänder as he quickly rose up, cleaving the suit in front of him in half. With a contemptuous snarl, he kicked the disabled suit back, knocking both halves of it down.

"Come!" Severely wounded and exhausted but unwilling to surrender to his fate, Hans raised his fist toward the advancing phalanx of walking armour. "COME! Vanquish me! Strike me down! I haven't all morning!"

" **ENOUGH!** "

A wave of cold passed right through Hans, chilling him to his very core. Hissing through clenched teeth, he dropped to his knees, feeling as though his own soul had just left his body.

"Cease thy struggling. Hast thou not endured enough punishment? Witnessed enough pointless death?" The disembodied voice continued, in a voice that's all too familiar to Hans. "Thee wouldst've been dead long before thou hast breached this estate's inner sanctum, were it mine own will."

"Frederick..." Fighting through the cold, Hans reached to undo the straps on his mask. "...Frederick van Hal, is it?"

The instant his mask slipped from his face, Hans saw him. An apparition of an old, morose-looking man dressed in dark flowing robes stood before the witch hunter, holding a gnarled shepherd's crook in one hand, and tucking a spectral tome inscribed with the words, "LIBER MORTIS" in the other.

"Hmmh." The spirit seemed to nod, the barest hint of a smile gracing his lips. "Now mine eyes doth see the truth — mine own blood courses within thy veins, kinsman. Pray tell, then, dost thou know of the reason why I have sought to guide ye here, within the ancestral halls of Vanhaldenschlosse, the Fortress of the Damned?"

"Guide?" Hans let out a derisive bark of laughter. "You haunted my dreams with visions of this evil place ever since I was a child, necromancer!" The witch hunter bared his teeth in his rage, glaring daggers at his ancestor's ghost. "You shamed and dishonoured your lineage by cavorting with that vampiric wretch — von Carstein! And even now, after a thousand years following your well-deserved demise, the family you left behind had to dedicate itself to redeeming the name of the House you've so callously tainted with your heresies!"

With no small amount of effort, Hans clawed his way back to his feet, blessed greatsword in his quivering grasp. "I couldn't care less as to why you wanted me here, blasphemer. I journeyed here and sacrificed my entire retinue with the express purpose of vanquishing you once and for all, and by Sigmar, I'll see you sent straight to Morr himself!"

Van Hal's spirit appeared displeased, slowly shaking his head. "Very well, then. Thou hast given me no other course of action..."

"Begone, fiend!" Consumed by fury and righteous zeal, Hans took a swipe at van Hal, only for the spectre to dissipate before his blade. The suits immediately took up their arms and began to advance threateningly against the witch hunter once more, but he did not falter in the face of death.

Hans fought on, to the best of his considerable, yet strained abilities. Many of the suits lay in unmoving pieces before his feet after a while, but exhaustion and his multitude of wounds eventually took their toll on him. Sent reeling by a shield bash, Hans couldn't muster the strength to defend himself from a spear thrust that came from behind, impaling him clean through his body.

"Gah! Ugh..." Even a seasoned witch hunter such as himself couldn't withstand the pain he was experiencing. Gasping, Hans was forced to his knees again with a single downward tug of the spear lodged into his body, his blade all but forgotten on the floor next to him.

"Do know that I doth not wish to inflict undue suffering upon thee, mine kinsman." Van Hal's spirit appeared again, leisurely sauntering into Hans' sight. "I only need thine cooperation... for what cometh next."

Two of the suits marched up next to Hans and held him down, preventing him from trying to move. In response, Hans spat at his ancestor in a final, defiant gesture. Van Hal scowled, and wasted no time surging up to his fleshbound descendant, his spectral form dissipating into the witch hunter's covered head.

Before he could even feel its effects take hold, Hans' templar training already made him aware of what was about to happen. It started faint at first, but van Hal's attempt at dominating his mind immediately increased in intensity, forcefully seeking to overwhelm his mental defences. The world around him began to lose colour, and before long, all he could hear was van Hal's voice, chanting incantations in a daemonic tongue.

"You... c-cannot... do this..." Hans clutched at his temples, even as his unliving captors tried to hold him down.

 _Thine master compels thee, child,_ the necromancer's voice rang, a mere whisper compared to the crushing strain he was inflicting. _Submit. Cease thine fruitless resistance. I shall live and breathe once more... the glory of House van Hal commandeth it."_

Hans felt his will slowly crumble. In moments, he knew his own consciousness would be snuffed out, replaced by an arch-necromancer bent on commiting more unspeakable acts of heresy.

"The Empire... endures..." He croaked out, slowly reaching for his mask on the floor nearby. "You will not... find us wanting..." Against all odds, he succeeded in reclaiming it.

 _The Empire?_ Van Hal's cruel laughter echoed in Hans' fading mind. _Ye delude thyself, kinsman. I no longer possess any interest in Sigmar's petty realm... not after I found a way... to pierce the veil of reality itself..._

"What is it..." Hans felt compelled to rise up to his feet, and after a bried internal struggle, he did so. It won't be long before van Hal could begin taking total control of his movements. "...that you intend?"

 _To start anew elsewhere_ , Van Hal answered. _To finish what I failed to accomplish in the Old World. In a way, it is a pity_ — _thine hands shall be the instruments I will use to carve an empire, and thine eyes shall soon witness the fruits of mine labour... but alas, I shan't say the same for thine immortal soul._

Hans bit his lip, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh until it began to bleed.

 _The incantation is well-nigh finished, child,_ Van Hal's soothing, paternal voice whispered. _Thine end draws near for thee. Rejoice... thy duty to Sigmar shall soon be over, and thy suffering will be soon rewarded with blessed oblivion. Speak these words... and bring us to our salvation..._

For the first time, Hans could see the damned souls inhabiting the empty suits of armour before him, their faces twisted in eternal agony. The end approaches... and no matter how much he struggled, van Hal's grip on his mind remained ironclad. "Do... what you must..."

It was over. There was nothing that can be done. Hans could feel van Hal's mounting elation as his soul withered away. In moments, the witch hunter was repeating after every heretical word the wraith possessing him had whispered into his mind, his voice growing louder and less hesitant as van Hal gained more and more control.

The walls around Hans began to shift, and the floor beneath him quaked and vibrated as he chanted words of power. The air itself seemed to thicken, almost enough to suffocate.

"Captain Hans!"

A dagger flew through the air and lodged itself into Hans' flesh, staggering him. As blood spilled from his new wound and soaked his slashed doublet undershirt, a fresh wave of pain jolted Hans from his stupor. In his mind, he could feel van Hal's grip on him slacken, momentarily distracted.

The witch hunter quickly chose to seize this opportunity. Before his ancestor's ghost could regain complete control of him again, Hans pushed his mask into his own face and tilted his head back, letting the myriad of powerful-smelling herbs and chemicals stored at the tip of the mask's beak wash over him.

The strong odours mixed together and almost instantly overwhelmed his senses. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the floor rapidly approaching.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Oh, boy. Here we go.

This story began life around a year ago as (obviously) a Darkest Dungeon story, and is actually one of my first attempts at writing fanfiction. As I was proofreading a story for another writer in this site and mucking about aimlessly on my computer, I accidentally stumbled upon the Word document containing this story. I remember abandoning it because of my studies, and eventually, my curiosity got the better of me. I opened the document and read a most unsettling passage...

Just kidding. Well, mostly kidding. The story was rife with grammatical errors and overly flowery sentences that made little sense. After reading an article on WHFRP's upcoming fourth edition, I was inspired to write this story you just read. I just modifed the original Darkest Dungeon story's paragraphs a little, cleaned it a lot, added a newer, slightly more grimdark setting, wrote in new fodder (characters), gave everything a fantasy Holy Roman Empire flavour, and voila! New story.

Expect updates to be a bit sporadic, however. My schedule is always busy, and I have other stories to mind. Not to worry, three or four other chapters are already written down, but I'll wait a few days before releasing them one by one, just to keep an eye out for errors and other issues.

Well, there you have it. I'm off to continue writing where I left off for the other story I'm writing. Thanks for hearing me out, and have a good day/night.


	2. Recovery

**11th of Sun's Dusk, 4E 175**

 **Two months after the signing of the White-Gold Concordat...**

Hans was shaken from his sleep by the shrieking of the wind. His rest was troubled, and did not give him comfort; his mind kept plaguing him with visions of his last few, conscious minutes.

Stirring where he lay, sharp pangs of pain from most of his body immediately forced him to take his every move slowly. As he sat up, he found himself bleeding still. He was, however, relieved that he was seemingly in control of his own body again, and that he seemed to no longer host his ancestor's spirit in his head.

The witch hunter looked around the laboratory, finding nothing besides discarded armour plates strewn about everywhere, with no sign of his previous companions... at least at first glance. Sighing, he looked down, grasped the hilt of the dagger sticking out his shoulder, and pried it off with a subdued whimper.

"Koskova!" Panting, he croaked, putting all his strength into his lungs. "Koskova, are you there? I'm... I'm bleeding out!"

Nothing but the wind answered Hans' call. Everything was still and eerily silent; it was as though the witch hunter was the only one left in the fortress. The roars and moans of distant horrors and even the chittering of rats could not be heard.

"Sigmar preserve me..." He grumbled to himself as he made the effort to stand up. His ravaged body protested every step of the way, but Hans perservered. Fashioning makeshift bandages out of the many sealed parchments he carried in his coat, Hans did his best to patch himself up and staunch the bleeding.

As he applied his experiences while training in the basics of battlefield triage to himself, Hans spared some time to think about the status of his mission. While van Hal's malevolent presence was nowhere to be felt, the witch hunter had no way of telling if the blasphemous spirit was truly gone. Not only that, but with himself having been severely wounded and with each man in his retinue either dead or missing, Hans knew he could not stay in Vanhaldenschlosse for much longer.

"Hrmph!" The witch hunter winced as he tightened a piece of parchment around his wounded leg. It took him a quarter of an hour to finish up as best as he could. Grimly satisfied, Hans moved to find a way out of the fortress.

As he shambled his way through the ruins, painstakingly retracing his steps and avoiding traps along the darkened corridors, Hans tried to keep his eyes focused on the path ahead, and away from the bodies of his men. Whether through the influence of the unholy sorceries at work in Vanhaldenschlosse, or simply because of blood loss, the witch hunter started to hallucinate seeing phantoms and shadows ligering near where his fallen comrades lay. Some even looked vaguely familiar...

"Focus!" The templar hissed to himself. "Have to... keep moving..."

It took Hans an hour to find a way out, via a flight of crumbling stairs leading from the abandoned great hall to the fortress' outer ward. After observing the room for any traps, Hans immediately got to work on getting rid of the rotten planks barring the doors to the outside world. He made sure to stop and look around every once in a while, still wary of any skeletons lurking about. Fortunately, no more undead horrors shambled into view, and the witch hunter soon managed to pry the last of the planks loose.

Sighing in relief, Hans pushed the doors open. Almost instantly, a sustained gust of unusually frigid wind almost knocked Hans on his back as he exposed himself to the outside world. Squinting to get a better look of what lied before him, Hans felt all hope in him slowly dissipate, leaving nothing but despair in its wake.

There, right in the middle of Vanhaldenschlosse's outer ward, a fierce blizzard raged like none the witch hunter had seen before. Its occurence baffled Hans to no end; Sylvania was not known to host such extreme, more northern-like weather, not even in the middle of autumn.

Cursing his luck, and whatever daemonic forces working against him, Hans steadied himself before heading out, into the snowy open. He chose not to stay for another second in van Hal's haunted edifice, and decided that he had much better chances of survival venturing out into a blizzard, rather than a fortress stacked to the brim with undead horrors.

The conditions outside impaired visibility to a significant degree. Hans struggled to move around as he vainly tried to search the surrounding area for the nearest footpath. The witch hunter knew that trying to travel in the Sylvanian countryside alone and on foot was tantanount to suicide, but he had no better options to take. He just tried to keep in mind that the Hunger Wood preyed on the unwary.

Suddenly, a distinctly lupine howl echoed in the air. Hans, troubled as he was, took little heed of it... until it was followed by another behind him, then another to the side, and another to the front, and another, and another, until he was completely surrounded from every direction.

The witch hunter sighed. He reached inside his coat and drew a pistol.

* * *

 **Elsewhere...**

"Endain!"

Endain Nirdil's ears twitched. He wiped under his nose and looked back, but his legs kept moving. "What is it?!" He shouted, making sure his voice was loud enough to be heard as the blizzard raged on all around his family.

"This was a bad idea!" Miraala, his wife of eighty-six years and a renowned musician in the Imperial province, complained. By now, her travelling boots sunk into the snow with every step. "To think that we could be safe and warm in Falkreath right now! Perish the thought!"

"I wanna go home." Osmund, the couple's young son, complained. "I don't understand. Why do we have to leave the house behind? I miss my friends."

"It's not safe for any of us at home anymore, sweet thing. You'll get used to travelling, in due time." Miraala soothed her son, before turning back to her husband. "Endain! We need to turn back and rent ourselves some rooms in a Falkreath inn! Now!"

"Ugh," Endain paused to cast a candlelight spell on himself for a third time since running into the blizzard. "I did not anticipate the weather in Skyrim to shift so suddenly, you know! And we're hardly "safe" in Falkreath! There could be Thalmor spies lurking there, just waiting for people like _us_ to saunter in!"

"Did one of your "records" mention the Thalmor having a presence in Falkreath?" Miraala derisively inquired, hands to her hips, rust-coloured eyes narrowed. Sighing, she wrapped her shawl firmly around her neck and over her mouth. "You know what? Never mind all this — just find us some shelter, before we all freeze to death!"

"F-fear not, m-m-mother." Ashryn, their daughter who worked as an alchemist's assistant, tried to cast a fire cloak over herself again, only for her spell to fizzle out due to her inadequate magicka reserves. "I can c-cast this w-w-with enough pract-t-tice. Ev-v-ventually."

Miraala gaped at her in shock. "Endain! Our daughter's teeth are chattering in this cold!" She quickly fished out some spare cloths from her pack before wrapping them around Ashryn.

"I'm n-n-not a ch-child, mother..." Ashryn complained as Miraala fussed all over her.

"Oh, by Sheogorath's winged cheese..." Endain scratched his head, muttering to himself. He stopped walking and turned around. "Okay, okay! You're right, darling! Let's head over to Falkreath and find ourselves an inn! I'm _sure_ some Thalmor n'wah _won't_ murder us in our sleep there!"

"Language!" Miraala glowered at him. She looked like she was about to say something further, when a muffled crack in the distance interrupted her. "What was that? Did you hear that just then?"

Edain looked at his wife in confusion. "Did I hear _what_ just the—" Another crack, louder this time. A dog or a wolf could be heard yelping. A man's scream soon followed.

"Namira's teeth, someone's being mauled by wild beasts!" Miraala was quick to say. "We need to get out of here before they attack us, too!"

Endain casted a clairvoyance spell. A line of glowing blue energy appeared on the snow, leading to where they heard the noises were. "It's just a short distance from here. We should investigate and see if we can help!"

Ashryn seemed to light up at the prospect of testing her mettle against wolves, but Osmund's grey skin visibly paled in fright. Miraala tried to argue with Endain, but he had already disappeared behind a snowdrift. Muttering curses and prayers to the daedric princes, Miraala beckoned her children to stay close to her as she hurried after her husband.

Sword in hand, Endain rushed through the snow, his cloak flowing behind him as he ran. Eventually, he encountered several wolf footprints in the snow, suggesting the presence of a pack on a hunt. He wasted no time following the tracks until he came upon a most gruesome sight.

A strangely-dressed, tall-hatted figure stood amidst a scene of carnage. The figure rested a reddened greatsword with an unusual, wave-like blade design over its shoulder, and clasped a strange, engraved contraption made out of what seemed like wood, metal, and gold in its free hand. All around it, the corpses of six large wolves lay, their blood soaking into the snow.

Endain smirked, re-sheathing his sword. "Hmm, I see you're capable enough to defend yourself, serjo. Well done!"

The figure suddenly whipped around to face Endain, revealing himself to be human — likely a nord, judging from his height and complexion. His stance and the way he carried his blade indicated his status as a warrior of some kind, and his scarred and bandaged face further suggested as such. What alarmed Endain was how exhausted and bloody the man looked, and how he suddenly cast his tired, dazed expression aside in favour of fury the moment he had a good look at the dunmer addressing him.

"Bleib mir fern, teuflische Mutant!" The man exclaimed as he hazily lifted his gloved hand — the same one holding the tube-like contraption — and pointed it at Endain. "Beginne... ugh, beginne mit dir!"

A tense moment passed, with Endain looking on in confusion. Eventually, the strange nord lost his grip on his device, causing it to fall into the snow. The nord himself stood still, looking paler and more unbalanced by the second.

"Are you..." Endain took a few hesitant steps forward. "You don't look well, nord. Perhaps you'd like to accompany us on our way to—"

The nord dropped to his knees, then to his hands. He coughed a handful of blood into the snow before keeling over and falling on his face. Endain hesitated for a second, uttered a curse, then dashed over to the man, regretting not taking basic lessons in Restoration when he had the chance.

Up close, the full, rather disturbing extent of the damage inflicted upon the nord's body was made much clearer. There was a gaping, partially-clotted wound on his back made by a stabbing weapon of sort, along with several other, similar cuts. Turning the man over on his back revealed a plethora of slash wounds, blunt force trauma, puncture wounds, and even bite marks that made Endain wince just by looking at them all.

"Oh, you poor fetcher," Endain muttered as he examined the unconscious nord's injuries. "How you managed to stay alive all this time... I have no idea."

It took only a little longer for his family to arrive. After surveying the wolf carcasses scattered about with horror, they looked surprised to see just what kept Endain busy.

"His pulse is weak, and he's lost a lot of blood." He observed, shaking his head. "I've seen a lot of wounds like this in my books... I don't think he's going to make it, even if we manage to stop the bleeding."

"S-shouldn't we at least t-t-try?" Ashryn said. "I m-mean, we c-can't just leave a man behind to die like this. We can t-take him to that castle, over th-there!"

"Castle?" A wry smile tugged at Endain's lips. "Heh. Don't be ridiculous. This place is as empty as—"

"Endain." Miraala laid a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Look."

He looked at her in confusion, until he hazarded a glance behind him. "Oh."

The blizzard did well to hide what appeared to be the ruins of an ancient nordic castle, complete with mossy, delipidated walls and towers. In actuality, Endain thought, its size and obviously militant design made it look more like a fortress, made to endure sieges and the like. The dunmeri family stood in awe of the sheer immensity of the edifice, even though it was already reduced to just a shadow of its former self.

"I... don't understand." Endain muttered to himself in disbelief. "I've been to Skyrim and travelled to this area of woodland before... multiple times, in fact. I never saw this fortress before, however. Not even once."

Ashryn brought out her map of Skyrim. "It d-doesn't appear on the map, either." She showed it for everyone to see.

"What's this thing, mother?" Young Osmund tugged at her mother's hand, pointing to an object in the snow nearby.

"Hush now, sweet thing." Miraala's gaze was focused intently on Ashryn's map. "I'm a little busy, here. Let us grown-ups talk for now."

"While this is certainly quite the interesting phenomenon," Endain shook his head, positioning himself to carry the unconscious nord's body. "We should study it a little closer in another time. We have more pressing matters to tend to."

"Right," Miraala slowly nodded. "Let us hope this castle proves comfortable, _and_ houses no surprises for us. My nordic colleagues often spoke of, and even sang about these... fiendish revenants prowling ancient ruins such as this."

"Those are called "draugr", my dear. Hrmph!" Endain grunted as he lifted the nord from the snow and to his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, the nord weighed heavily because of all the equipment he seemed to carry under his strange garb, as well as the metal breastplate he wore. "And you needn't worry about them; between Ashryn's flames and my Alteration expertise, a few decomposing undead warriors are no match for us."

The family of dunmer made their way into the nordic fortress. It was difficult to find an entrance because of the adverse weather impairing visibility, but thanks to Endain's knowledge of fortifications, they eventually came across a ruined gatehouse.

"Through here!" Endain shouted behind. He returned his gaze to the path ahead and pressed onward. "Almost there!"

Ashryn conjured up a burst of flames from her hand to briefly illuminate the way. What she saw on the snow just a few steps from her own feet made her yelp in shock.

Fearing his family had come to danger, Endain turned around, unsheathing his sword from across the hip. He expected to see draugr, bandits, or some wild animal. Instead, by the light of his daughter's flames, he saw dozens of human bodies on the ground, partially buried by the snow. All were dressed in ratty uniforms in browned shades of yellow and black, though only a few wore armour or carried weapons.

Strangely, the bodies were in various stages of decomposition, and were lathered in what appeared to be fresh dirt. It was as though they were just recently dug up from under their graves.

Deciding that the questions in his mind must be answered much later, Endain put his sword back in its sheath. "Nothing to be afraid of, here! Come on, let's not waste any more time out in the open!"

More dead bodies greeted the dunmer upon finally entering the fortress proper, although these ones look freshly slain. The floor at the entrance was blackened by scorch marks, dried blood splatters decorated the walls, and just up ahead, the macabre sight of four men pinned by massive spikes to the wall made Endain pale in fright and disgust, to say nothing of how the rest of his family reacted. Evidently, something terrible had occurred in this place just recently.

"I'm having second thoughts about walking into this place..." Miraala said, as she followed after Endain.

"Look on the bright side; at least the blizzard is behind us." Endain muttered, red eyes warily scanning the corridors ahead for traps and other dangers. "And the Thalmor would have a hard time trying to find us now. They certainly won't expect us to be hiding in a decrepit ancient nordic fortress that just appeared out of nowhere."

"What if they do find us?" Miraala asked. "Nothing stays hidden from them forever."

Endain shrugged, easily. "I'll see them coming. We'll be long gone by then."

"Is this going to be our lives now?" Ashryn carefully stepped over a corpse. "Living in fear of the Thalmor as we move from town to town, hoping they won't catch us?"

"Not if I can help it." Endain said. "I've a plan, love, but I need you to give me a little more time. Trust me, we'll all get through this. For now, though... at least until the weather outside disperses, I guess we'll just have to make ourselves at home."

* * *

 **13th of Sun's Dusk**

Hans was shaken from his sleep by the shrieking of the wind. That, and the sound of incessant, indiscernible chattering.

At least, he thought, he was still alive.

Cracking one eye open, instead of seeing the snow or the sky, Hans saw a ceiling made out of quarried stone. His first thought was that he must have dreamt everything, and that he was just about to embark to Sylvania later in the day. The witch hunter was proven incorrect upon simply looking to the side, where the familiar, woodworked walls and dusty tapestries of Vanhaldenschlosse's great chamber greeted him.

Indeed, Hans just realised that he was lying down on a makeshift bed made out of straw, and looking down revealed that most of his clothes were gone, and his wounds had all been cleaned and bandaged somehow. Who could have dragged him out of that blizzard and had been kind enough to tend to his injuries?

Suddenly, the unintelligible whispering intensified, and the sound of approaching footsteps alerted Hans to the fact that he wasn't alone in the room. Adrenaline surged within the witch hunter's bloodstream as instincts and training came into effect.

A disciplined mind could only carry a man so far, however. As he tried to right himself, Hans' body was wracked with agony, forcing him to slow down. By the time he managed to sit up on the bed, his "visitors" were already upon him, and he was still deprived of a weapon.

Standing near the foot of his bed were a pair of mutants... females, by the shape of their bodies and the swell of their bosoms. Both possessed skin as grey as ash, and had angular faces that somehow reminded Hans of how Imperial artists depicted elves, especially with how their elongated ears ended with a point. The first of them, the taller of the two, had eyes coloured a brownish red, like the colour of rust. The other one had purely red eyes. The rust-eyed mutant was — strangely enough — dressed like a noble, what with the impractical amount of jewelry hanging off of her. The red-eyed mutant appeared much less opulent, despite the golden trim incorporated in her hooded robes.

The finely-dressed mutant ran her eyes up and down on Hans, quietly examining him. The witch hunter propped himself up on his elbows and stared back, trying to see their intent. While he would normally assume that any mutant had something terrible in store for the likes of him, Hans gave these grey-skinned women the rare benefit of doubt — he, for some reason, could not detect the taint of Chaos or vampiric corruption upon their bodies, despite their obviously deformed state.

With a pained grunt, Hans leaned back and decided to learn more about his unusual situation. After all, what choice did he have? His body would not even let him stand up.

Before long, the finely-dressed mutant seemed to reach a conclusion on Hans, slowly nodding her head. She opened her mouth and said something, but its meaning was immediately lost on Hans. The robed mutant also spoke a few words, but once more, Hans failed fo understand anything out of her.

"Reikspiel." Hans rasped. "Speak... Reikspiel."

The two mutants looked to each other, appearing quite vexed. They then took turns speaking to Hans in a couple of other languages, but to no avail. Could it be that these "Sylvanians" spoke no word of the most widespread tongue in the Old World? Hans wondered if he was still even in Sylvania. Vanhaldenschlosse's familiar confines certainly contrasted with his thoughts.

"That's enough," Hans waved his company off. They appeared startled to hear him raise his voice. "I can't understand—"

The growling in his stomach interrupted Hans mid-sentence. He couldn't help but feel awkward and annoyed at the same time as the two mutants shared a chuckle at his expense. After all, the last time mutants laughed at him, he slit their throats open and watched through the glass lenses of his mask as their corrupted bodies burned to cinders.

To the credit of _these_ mutants, though, their amusement soon died down in seeming favour of concern. The finely-dressed one said something to her robed kin, who nodded and walked over to a backpack sitting on a nearby table. From there, Hans watched her take something out before returning to the bed and reaching out to him with a handful of what appeared to be... well, hardtack.

At times like these, one should not be picky about what they eat.

Still more than a little wary, Hans studied the food being offered before gingerly accepting it. He was trained in the Order to detect harmful or corruptive substances hidden within food, and to his surprise, he found the biscuits clean, if a bit cold. Splitting one into two revealed no worms residing in it, which was certainly a rare sight. The witch hunter eagerly scarfed down the hardtack.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door. Hans' instincts told him to drop his food and reach for a weapon. Instead, he watched as the finely-dressed mutant strode across the room and unlocked the door. The witch hunter wasn't surprised in the least to see more mutants step inside — a male and what appeared to be a child. Like the women, these mutants had grey skin, reddish eyes and vaguely elven characteristics.

The child mutant ran over to the finely-dressed one as the male followed behind, brushing bits of snow from his furs. The finely-dressed female bent down and hugged the young one as a greeting, then stood up and planted a kiss on the male's lips, who returned the gesture. Hans watched them smile and talk amongst themselves like one would expect out of a loving family. For a man like himself, it was a surreal scene; the witch hunter had long believed that mutants only thought about butchering innocents and destroying civilisation in the name of the dark gods.

It wasn't long before the male noticed that Hans was awake, propped up against his bed and in the middle of devouring an entire week's worth of hardtack. Laughing quietly, he dropped off his backpack and his peculiarly-shaped sword for his wife to take before taking a chair and positioning himself beside the templar's bed.

Hans stared at the mutant as the latter began to take out books and mouldy tomes from a satchel by his side, stacking them on the floor as he did so. The ash-skinned, scholarly mutant was dressed in heavy furs and a cloak, and he carried with him several kilograms' worth of assorted survival equipment. It was clear to Hans that this particular mutant, unlike his kin, took the time to prepare himself to face blizzards and sub-zero temperatures.

By now, the mutant's books had piled up to an impressive height. Hans was puzzled to see so many items coming from such a small satchel. Once he was finished taking out all the books he thought he needed, the mutant snatched the first one his spindly hand reached and immediately began reading it in front of the witch hunter.

"Ehem," After a while, the mutant cleared his throat, looked up from his book, and said, "Skilur... þú... uh, mig?"

Hans frowned, putting down the biscuit in his hand. "What did you just say, greyskin?"

The mutant seemed to note the displeasure on Hans' tone and expression. He casually dropped the book in his hands, snatched another from his pile, and began reading into it.

"Ymmärrätkö... erm..." He cleared his throat again. "Ymmärrätkö... minua?"

Hans figured out what the deformed and miscoloured man was trying to do. "I don't understand that, try again." He shook his head.

Seemingly unperturbed, the mutant cast his book away, took another, and repeated the process. "Kas sa mõistad mind?" He asked, after another while.

The witch hunter reclined on his bed, sighing deeply. "No. Still not Reikspiel." He said, shaking his head again. He had a feeling this would go on until Hexenstag. "I'll settle for Bretonnian."

Hours passed. Hans was already half asleep after devouring the hardtack he was given and then some, courtesy of the robed mutant. The male mutant did not show signs of slowing down, though, as he continued to recite phrases from dozens of different languages in hopes that Hans understood at least one.

By now, the finely-dressed mutant had retired next to the fireplace, her young child curled up in her lap. The robed one sat awake, reading some of the phrasebooks the male had discarded. Hans yawned and pulled up his covers, a prayer to Sigmar in his mind. He was just about to nod off, when the male uttered something familiar.

"Forstår du meg?"

Hans' eyes widened at that. As quickly as his ravaged body allowed him, the templar sat upright on the bed. "That's... that's the language of the Bjornling Tribe — a wretched collection of unwashed raider northmen!"

The mutant seemed shocked to receive such a furious reaction from Hans. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off when the templar, in a surprising feat of endurance, ignored the pain wracking his limbs to reach out and take the weathered tome from his hands.

With a trembling grasp, the witch hunter tore into the book. It was written in the Norscan Bjornling Tribe's runic language indeed, but it was hardly a tome that either tempted unsuspecting readers into Chaos worship or summoned daemons into the material realm, as Hans had suspected. Actually, it seemed to be some sort of cookbook...

"What the devil..." Hans muttered as he read a passage on how to prepare "spriggan soup". He flipped through the pages and eventually found a section that served as something of a diary, which also contained a few phrases in a language called "Atmoran", translated into "Nedic". One of them was, "Do you understand me?".

"Worthless." Hans tossed the strange book aside. He no longer felt like sleeping, and he quickly gestured for the stunned mutant in front of him to continue.

Gulping, the male took another book from his pile and read into it. In the period of another few hours, Hans kept steady as the mutant continued reciting phrases for him. More unfamiliar tongues from the mutant tested Hans' temper, but he did eventually speak phrases from other Norscan dialects, his vocabulary drawing closer and closer to Reikspiel.

It was early in the morning when the mutant, exhausted from sleep deprivation, yawned and mumbled another phrase.

"Verstaat... u mij...?"

Hans opened his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he smiled. "Marienburg... where House van Hal originated. Just a little further to the east, and..."

The mutant rubbed his eyes, dropped his book, picked another one, then read into it. Fifteen minutes later, he said,

"Verstehen Sie mich?"

Hans openly grinned. Nodding, he collapsed into his bed and let sleep overtake him.


	3. Introductions

The weeks passed as Hans waited for his injuries to heal. During that time, the family of mutants he had for hosts kept him company, and did their best to educate him regarding the tongue they spoke, using the book on Reikspiel they found for reference several times per lesson.

Whenever he had the chance, Hans asked to borrow the book in question, which was mostly written in a language that suspiciously resembled the Norscan tongue, named Atmoran. Reading into it, Hans learned that in Tamriel — which was the name of the strange region of the world he found himself residing in — humans used to inhabit a continent north of Tamriel, called Atmora. These people, the Atmorans, spoke in the same, Norscan-like tongue that Hans was reading at this very moment. This language also spawned several other tongues and dialects that were still used in varying degrees by the current Tamrielic population.

One of these derivative languages was a Reikspiel analogue called Askelsprecht, which was spoken by ancient Atmoran "nords" thousands of years ago, and was unfortunately quite extinct... much like its parent tongue. Another derivative language that caught Hans' eye was the rather unimaginatively named Askelsprijkt, which resembled the Marienburg dialect in turn.

Deciding that his energy was much better spent trying to learn more about the present rather than the past, Hans put the book down one day and never bothered opening it again. During dinner one cold night, after deciding that he had learned enough about their language, the witch hunter swallowed his pride for one moment to ask his hosts if they could introduce themselves.

"Aha." The scholarly male mutant's mouth broke into a wide grin as he stabbed his fork into his piece of roasted rabbit. "I'd have thought you'd never ask, serjo. Well, let's start with names and occupations, shall we? Mine is Endain. Endain Nirdil, dunmer scholar and archivist, at your service."

"Miraala Nirdil, of House Redoran." The finely-dressed mutant introduced herself in a much more formal manner. "My husband's expertise is in dusty tomes and obscure languages... mine lies in music and the arts." After a while, she then added, "I am _not_ a simple bard."

The robed mutant offered a demure smile as she pulled down her hood, revealing voluminous black hair severely tied back by clasps and beads. "I'm Ashryn Nirdil. I worked as an alchemist's assistant, and studied magic in my spare time."

The last mutant, the child, was quiet at first. But after prodding from his mother, he eventually mumbled, "Osmund Nirdil." while trying to avoid eye contact.

The witch hunter let out a breath. They'd done so much for him without expecting anything in return; the least he could give was his true name.

"My name... is Johannes. Johannes van Hal. Though you may call me by Hans." He introduced himself, easily enough. What came next, was much harder. "I'm... a witch hunter, in service to the Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar, and to the Empire of Man."

He expected them to react negatively, even violently. Instead, the worst he received were looks of curiosity and puzzlement. It was apparent that these people hadn't the slightest idea of what he usually carried out against their kind, back in the Old World.

"I like how he talks." Osmund said, chuckling.

"A... witch hunter?" Endain muttered, stroking his wispy beard. "So, you hunted "witches" for a living?"

"On occasion." Hans nodded. "They are certainly not my most common prey."

"Right," Endain processed this information. "And this "Empire of Man"... is it in any way related to the Septim Empire?"

Hans had come across references to a "Tamrielic Empire" a few dozen times while reading about Tamriel in one of Endain's books, and it even shared similarities with Sigmar's Empire regarding the way it was founded along with the supposed divine fate of its founder... but alas, he read nothing to suggest that there was a link between the two similarly-named realms.

"No. It is not." Hans said. "I do not come from Skyrim, you see. Or any other place in Tamriel, for that matter. It seems this fortress... Vanhaldenschlosse is its name, had been... transported here from the Old World somehow, along with most of its occupants."

"Oh. I had you figured for a nord of some sort because of the Atmoran tongue that you speak. It seems I am mistaken..." Endain scratched the back of his neck. "Also, "most" of this fortress' occupants? Does this mean there are others like you?"

"Yes. There are a few others. They seem to be gone now, though. Dead, most likely." Hans said, slowly nodding his head.

"Hmm, I'm sorry to hear that." Endain expressed his sympathies.

"Our condolences for your loss." Miraala did likewise.

"Danke," Hans waved a hand in a dismissive "don't worry about it" gesture, then looked for an opportunity to change the subject. "You mentioned you are a "dunmer" scholar before, Herr Endain Nirdil. What is a dunmer?"

Endain smiled. "Well, just as you call yourself a human, serjo, we call ourselves the dunmer. We are a race of dark-skinned elves hailing from the province of Morrowind, in the northeast corner of Tamriel. We Nirdils live in Cyrodiil, though... at least, we used to."

"Elves?" Hans was surprised. Very surprised. "Truly?"

"Of course, my friend. Wasn't it obvious from the ears?" Endain chuckled as Hans gaped. "Don't you have merfolk from where you lived?"

"Merfolk? If you are speaking of elves, then yes. There are elves in the Old World." Hans swiftly regained composure. "Those elves keep to themselves, however, and they have a habit of killing anyone crossing their forests. There are more of their kind across the Great Ocean, but they are not much better. For most elves, humans are only a little more than insects."

"Sounds like _someone_ we know." Endain noted wryly. "Well, Hans, you needn't fear elves while among us."

"I've killed elves before. I do not fear them." Hans said. "And neither does the Empire. If they were foolish enough to come for us, we will be ready."

Endain let out a mournful sigh. "That's what dear old Titus thought, too." He mumbled lowly, as though expecting Hans not to hear.

Sensing that he had struck a chord in a negative manner, Hans chose to drop the subject and focus eating his meal, which had already gone cold. It was a while before someone broke the silence once more.

"Father," Ashryn spoke up, pushing her silverware aside. "I'm afraid I've already learned all I can from the textbooks we've brought with us from Cyrodiil. I'd like to go to Falkreath tomorrow to buy some more from the jarl's court wizard... care to accompany me?"

Endain smiled and opened his mouth, then closed it, looking a little more pensive. Finally, he seemed to have come to a decision, "Not tomorrow, darling. Our stores are running low — I'll have to go into the woods to hunt for game, or we'll starve."

Ashryn seemed disappointed, but covered it up with a nonchalant shrug. "So you say, father. I guess I'll just—"

"I will go with the Fräulein, Herr Nirdil." Hans also set his empty plate aside. "I have grown restless waiting for my wounds to heal. Now that I can walk again, I believe I am due for a change in scenery."

"A bold offer, serjo." Endain rapped his fingers on the table, making a show of considering Hans' words.

"Quite." Miraala finished the last of her stew and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "We don't know you well enough to trust you with protecting our daughter, witch hunter."

"But..." Endain leaned on the table, looking Hans in the eyes. "I think we should let Ashryn decide. Well, darling, what do you think of Hans' offer? Do you trust this human to see you escorted safely throughout your journey?"

Ashryn looked to Hans, seemingly examining him for a hidden quality she sought. In the end, she shrugged again, "I can defend myself from threats. He can tag along — I just need someone to travel with, is all."

Endain nodded. "Well, that's settled, then. Do be careful out there, you two. Skyrim isn't known to have the safest roads in the Empire."

"Count on me to keep your daughter safe, mein Herr." Hans promised. "On my honour as a man of Sigmar, I swear it."

The following day, Hans woke a little earlier than usual. He snaked out of the solar, washed himself as thoroughly as he could, and changed back into his armour and uniform. Packing some hardtack into the pouches clipped into his belt, the witch hunter decided to walk around Vanhaldenschlosse while waiting for his hosts to wake up.

He constantly had to remind himself Vanhaldenschlosse used to be a necromancer's haunted redoubt. It was quite impressive how the dunmer managed to clean it up during the weeks he was bed-bound. The halls were relatively clean and finally free of centuries-old cobwebs, but Hans still felt a bit uneasy while walking through them; he swore he could still see movement at the corner of his eyes, and sometimes, if he stood still for a long enough time, he could hear someone whispering pleas into his ears.

Shaking these lingering fears, Hans continued on his stroll. He eventually stopped after hearing Miraala's voice calling for him. He followed it until he reached the great hall, where his was greeted by the sight of Endain examining an array of bladed weaponry and blackpowder arms on a table while his wife fussed over Ashryn in her travelling gear.

"There you are, serjo." The dunmeri scholar greeted the witch hunter with a strange, foreign salute. He then directed his gaze back to the handgun he was examining. "You know, I've always wondered what this thing is. Well... I know for a fact that this is a weapon since most of the dead bodies we've cleaned up seem to carry one like it, but I've no idea how it works, exactly."

Wordlessly, Hans strode over to the table and took the handgun from it. Testing its weight, he figured out that the firearm was unloaded. Endain watched as the witch hunter loaded new shot and powder into the weapon, cocked it, and took aim on a nearby marble bust. After a second staring down the handgun's sights, however, he stood down.

 _There's no use wasting perfectly good shot and blackpowder. I'll hold on to this._ The witch hunter slung the loaded handgun over his shoulder. To get rid of excess weight, he took his sheathed zweihänder from his back and laid it down on the table. He then replaced the greatblade with a dirk and a hand-axe. "Is your daughter ready, Frau Nirdil?"

"Were it up to me, she'll never be ready." Miraala finished attaching Ashryn's cloak to her hooded robes, then sauntered off to retrieve one of the weapons on the table for her. "You don't mind if we borrow a sword or a dagger from one of your... dearly departed friends, do you?"

Hans shrugged. "Go ahead."

After another hour spent preparing for a potential fight, Hans was on his way out of Vanhaldenschlosse again. With Fräulein Nirdil up front, he made sure nothing attacked her from behind.

"Do you do a lot of travelling, Hans?" Ashryn spoke up, making small talk.

"Yes." Hans answered automatically, his mind already occupied by the journey ahead. "Hamlets to villages, towns to cities."

"What for?"

"To do what my duty requires of me."

"Can you be a bit more... specific?"

Hans sighed. "I determine the path of plagues, educate the citizenry on how to avoid being infected by plague, investigate the causes of these plagues, and burn the monsters responsible for spreading plagues in the first place."

Ashryn looked behind her shoulder, an amused look on her face. "So, you're all about plagues, huh?"

"Fräulein, you don't understand," Hans shook his head. Overtaken by his zeal for his work, he began to speak in length.

"These are no ordinary plagues. These plagues do not kill you, nor were they borne out of natural means — they were meant to utterly corrupt your soul and are spread forth by minions of the Chaos god of pestilence and decay: Nurgle. It is too often that entire Imperial settlements are consumed whole by these plagues, causing their inhabitants to mutate into shambling, hideously-deformed agents of rot and sickness... and when that time comes, it will be up to people like me to purge this settlement by sword and fire, lest the corruption expands uncontrollably across Imperial territory."

She looked horrified, _and_ morbidly fascinated the entire time Hans was speaking. "I... see. I didn't know — I apologise if I offended you."

Hans waved her off. "I simply tried to give you an idea of what I do as a witch hunter, Fräulein. You did not offend, and there is no need to apologise."

Soon, the two of them were footslogging through the woods, finally on the beaten path to Falkreath. The fierce blizzard that almost took the witch hunter's life was long gone, but the snowy weather was still there, and the winds still persisted to a lesser degree. Visibility was much better, at least.

Alone with his thoughts, Hans tried to think of a way he could use to return to the Empire. Since the elves he was now living with seemed to have no clue whatsoever about the Old World, it was safe to assume that trying to make it to Nuln manually would be pointless — the distance between Tamriel and the Old World might as well be infinite.

 _A spell could work,_ Hans begrudgingly thought. He was more than a little suspicious of magic, as befitting a witch hunter, but talented wizards might be the only people who could figure out a way to send him back. _Yes... they will have to do. I must find the nearest wizard college and enlist their aid._

"So, Hans," Ashryn started to speak again, bringing the witch hunter back to reality. "How did that castle of yours appear in Skyrim? And why were there so many bodies when we first arrived?"

"I still cannot say how it was teleported here." Hans admitted. "And if you must know, Vanhaldenschlosse wasn't always safe and untainted by the presence of undead. I was in the middle of leading a group of warriors into the fortress to rid it of its unholy inhabitants when it disappeared off the face of Sylvania. The corpses and skeletons your family encountered belonged to my men, and the creatures they managed to kill."

"That makes sense, I suppose." Ashryn nodded, setting her sights back to the road ahead. "All this talk about soul-corrupting plagues and now rampant undead... I take it it's not very peaceful where you lived, then?"

"I've never known true peace, Fräulein Nirdil." Hans gruffed. "The Empire has almost always been at war in some form or another, and I doubt this will change soon."

"Harsh." The dunmeri alchemist stepped over a branch. "Well, you should rest easy now. Tamriel used to be at war, too, but it's been over for a couple of months. What are your plans then, if you don't mind me asking?"

"You certainly are an inquisitive one."

"Come on. Indulge me."

"I do not see how this concerns you."

"Pretty please?"

Hans rolled his eyes. Never had he known elves to behave like this. "If you insist. I plan on surviving this frozen wasteland, for a start. My long-term goal is to find a way back to my Empire. Sigmar knows how much it needs every vigilant pair of eyes and strong sword-arms."

Ashryn, perhaps sensing Hans' fouling mood, opted to keep quiet for now. The two of them travelled in silence for an hour until finally, the guarded entrance to Falkreath was within reach.

"We're almost there," Ashryn looked behind her shoulder to Hans. "Keep following me, and let me do the talking."

"Let's get this over with, Fräulein." Hans adjusted his handgun's strap.

"Ho there!" One of the hold guards at the entrance hailed them as they approached. He was the first fellow human Hans saw in a while, but he spoke with an accent that sounded almost Norscan. "Hmm, I haven't seen you around the settlement before. What brings the two of you here?"

"I come in search of certain books and certain bits of knowledge, guardsman." Ashryn answered evenly. "I've heard Jarl Dengeir of Stuhn's court wizard might have them in stock, and is available to impart her wisdom for a price."

"Figures." The guard shrugged, then turned to look at Hans. "What about you, kinsman? You... dress strangely, if you don't mind me saying. Are you a skald?"

"No." Hans gestured at the handgun barrel poking behind his shoulder. "I am here to make sure the elf keeps breathing."

"Talk strangely, too." One of the other guards at the back chimed in, only to get a slap behind the head by a nearby colleague.

"Fair enough." The guard nodded and stepped aside. "Go on ahead. Mind yourselves, and of course, enjoy your stay."

Hans doffed his hat in salute to the man as he followed Ashryn into Falkreath proper. "I may have to purchase new clothes, Fräulein. They seem to draw attention."

The dunmer smirked. "Aww. I kinda like the outfit. It makes you look... unique, and the hat gives the impression that you're much more important than you really are!" Her grinning expression quickly soured, however. "You could do without the coat, though. It might... remind everyone around you of certain... unpleasant people."

"Witch hunters?"

"Not really. I was talking about the Thalmor."

Hans frowned. Another thing he didn't know. "What is the Thalmor?"

Ashryn looked around, taking note of the people around her. "I'll tell you all about them later." She whispered, setting her sights back to her front. "It's not safe to talk about them here."

Falkreath was much larger than Hans imagined, but a proper Imperial town still put it to shame in terms of sheer size and population. Ashryn asked around for directions while Hans casted his shadow over her, making sure the locals stay civil and out of her way. For some reason, however, the locals in question seemed less interested in the dunmer than they are in him. Everywhere they walked, people would stare or point at the witch hunter.

"There." Ashryn eventually pointed to one of the structures they came across. "That's the jarl's longhouse. I'll take it from here, Hans. Can you wait a few hours out here while I haggle for my books?"

Hans adopted a grumpy look. "I don't want to be gaped at by these yokels for "a few hours" on end."

"Then find an tavern and get a drink, see the sights, or whatever. I'm not telling you to wait for me by standing perfectly still over here — do something fun!" She suggested. "Don't get into too much fun, though. At least, not without telling me. See you later, Hans."

Hans sighed as he watched Ashryn leave and disappear behind the door to the jarl's longhouse. Turning around, he took the beaked mask clipped to his belt and strapped it to his cowl and over his face, casting the world around him in a dull orange filter.

 _I suppose I should make good use of my time..._

* * *

 **Earlier that day...**

"Virgmund! Good to see you." Lod Alversen greeted yet another tavern regular, a burly frontiersman named Virgmind Crowfeet. "Sit, have a drink on me."

"For the last bloody time, Lod, I've no interest doing Jarl Dengeir's dirty work." Virgmund pushed Lod aside. "I'm old, but I'd rather not die today." He wasted no time walking over to the innkeep, septim in hand.

Lod sighed into his palm and continued watching the door. A few minutes later, another prospective adventurer-type walked in, looking high and mighty in his gleaming full plate armour. "Greetings, stranger! Have a drink!"

The adventurer, a young imperial or redguard by the flash of tanned skin on his neck, enthusiastically accepted the offered tankard of mead. "My thanks, friend. Say, do you know where a man like me can find work? I finally managed to convince my father to let me begin my career as a mercenary, you see."

Lod grinned. _Poor lad. He's probably going to die soon._ "Well now, it just so happens that I do have work for a man like you. I'm Lod, by the way, and the jarl asked me to look for warriors who'd be eager to fight a certain group of criminals on the prowl in his domain. So, my friend, are you interested?"

"Damned right, I am!" The "mercenary" eagerly nodded. "How many others will be fighting with me? And when do we start?"

Lod's smile faltered a bit. "For the moment... it's just you. You should sit down and wait until I manage to recruit more for our cause... unless, of course, you'd like to pick up a stool and help me?"

"Oh." The lad seemed disheartened, but only briefly. "Well, alright. I guess I'll head inside, then."

Lod let him pass, and continued his watch. He tried not to blame Jarl Dengeir for not allowing him to allocate some of the guards into his party, especially since troubled times seem imminent in Skyrim, now that Talos worship was just recently banned on the pain of death.

Hours passed without incident as more people walked into the tavern. Lod tried to recruit anyone who looked the slightest bit like warriors or soldiers, but to no avail. By now, Lod was on the verge of giving up and cutting his losses, until an altmer dressed in armoured robes with a staff strapped to her back caught his attention.

"My lady!" Lod stood up and hollered at the tall elf, who gave the impression of being a sorceress of some kind. Of course, Lod believed every elf was a magic-using milk-drinker. "You don't seem like the type to frequent this establishment; what brings you here?"

"None of your business, nord." The altmer coolly responded as she advanced, her refined Alinor accent reinforcing her noble image. "Do be polite and step out of the way, please. I've a mind to forget my troubles for now."

Undeterred, Lod pressed on. "Well, if you're looking for work, there are bandits that—"

"My answer is no, thank you." She was quick to crush his hopes. "Now, would you kindly...?"

Morosely, Lod moved out of the way and let the woman pass. _Bloody arrogant wench. Talos take your eyes._ He was about to resume his watch, when the sound of armour clinking together made him turn around.

The sight that greeted him almost made Lod fall on his stool in surprise. A man — or what looked like a man — slowly strode toward him, outfitted in a strange yet dashing uniform, and wearing what appeared to be a beaked mask fashioned to look like the face of a demonic raven or crow. "Wh-what the hell—"

"Greetings, citizen," The thing in front of him spoke, his voice coming out of his mask in a dry, muffled rasp. "May I enter this tavern?"

Lod found himself nodding. "Y-yes. Of course, sir. Head on in."

The thing unexpectedly doffed his hat to him. "Danke schön." He stepped inside without another word.

 _What the hell was that?_ Lod asked himself as he sat back down. His curiosity getting the better of him, he looked behind to see what the newcomer intended to do in the inn. He couldn't help but notice that the altmer mage from earlier was doing the same.

"Guten Morgen und hallo, meine Frau." The faceless stranger greeted the breton manning the establishment in the same, unnatural voice and accent he used with Lod. "Please do not be alarmed. I come looking for work."

"That mask of yours sure gave me a fright, stranger." The breton inkeep, realising that she wasn't talking to a dread spirit of some sort, steadied her breathing and attempted to look as calm as possible. "For a moment there, I thought you rose up from the graveyard outside. Anyway, what sort of work are you looking for?"

"Preferably the bloody kind," The stranger said. "But I can provide my services as an investigator, or a pathfinder, if nothing else is available."

Lod was out of his stool and halfway across the room in an instant. "Bloody work you say, friend? Well, I've got news for you!"

The stranger slowly turned around, those beady glass eyes of his boring holes into Lod's soul. "I'm listening."

Lod grinned. _Maybe he'll scare the bandits to death_. He proceeded to introduce himself and tell the man all about Jarl Dengeir's task.

"I see." The stranger nodded. "If these bandits are posing such a threat to public safety, mein Herr, then they must be made an example of. I will go with you."

"Excellent choice, sir!" Lod inwardly sighed a breath of relief. "Now, we only need a few more men to come with us and—"

"No." The stranger cut him off curtly. "You do not need any more men — you have _me._ We will go. Now."

"Whoa, cool it down, stranger." Lod put up hands placatingly. "There's no way three of us can take on an entire clan of—"

" _Four_ of us, nord."

Lod was thoroughly surprised as the altmer mage stood up, staff in hand. "And I agree with this... man. If we want to bring these criminals to justice, we should not waste any more time here. We should proceed at once."

"What? I thought you were—"

"Uninterested? Well, as it turns out, I am in need of coin to pay for my mead today." She smirked at his flabbergasted expression. "Well, nord? I haven't all day."

"Agreed." The stranger pitched in. He seemed to stare a little too long at the elf before turning back to Lod. "What will it be, mein Herr? Accept my aid now, or lose it. I will find other ways to occupy my time."

"F-fine." Defeated, Lod turned to the young man in armour, who was busy flirting with the bard. "Hey, stop embarrasing yourself and come here! It's time to go!"

"Right, right." The lad put his helmet back on and adjusted his codpiece back into shape.

* * *

Minutes later, the four-man company was walking away from Falkreath Hold, with Lod and the full-plated warrior at the front, and Hans with the blue-eyed, golden-skinned witch bringing up the rear.

"Be careful around these parts, everyone." Lod warned, his shield up and gripping his mace tightly. "We're drawing closer to scum-town. Never know where they'll spring from and attack us."

"You'll easily see them coming provided you take care before blundering in like a clumsy horker, nord." The witch said, looking well at ease. Hans took note of how closely she resembled a high elf back home. Indeed, she had the bearing, the beauty, and the unmistakable aura of imperiousness and arrogance of one.

"Aye, but not everyone possessed the gift of magical foresight, milady." Lod gruffed.

"You don't need to use magic to look before you leap, you know." She smirked. "Unless you're a complete and utter dullard, of course."

Lod grumbled inaudibly, refusing to indulge the witch's appetite for acidic back-and-forth verbal sparring. Hans was glad to be uninvolved until, inevitably, the woman set her sights to him.

"You're not from around here... are you, good fellow?"

Hans swivelled his masked head to face her. He could tell this one was dangerous — more than her elegant appearance suggested. "No, I am not."

"It's obvious from the way you speak. Well then, pray tell, what brings you to this cold and miserable province?"

The witch hunter tilted his head to the side. "Pardon me, witch, but what gives you the right to ask me this question? I don't even know you."

"Ah, but where have my manners gone off to?" Still smiling that patronising smirk of hers, she tucked her staff under an arm and extended the other one to Hans. "Lady Solana of Alinor. Charmed, I'm sure."

Hans deliberately waited a few seconds to make the woman uncomfortable, utilising this moment to study her closer. Finally, just as she was about to let her hand fall, Hans reached out and shook it.

"Hans." He brusquely introduced himself.

Solana's grip was surprisingly gentle. "That's certainly a unique name." She retracted her hand.

Hans stared at her again. "You were just asking me what brought me to Skyrim, yes?"

"Correct."

"I'll answer this question... in exchange for an answer to _my_ question. Do we have an agreement, Frau Solana?"

She seemed amused. "Fair enough, good fellow. What do you have in mind?"

Hans seized the momentum. "Are you an elf?"

Solana was clearly surprised at the question. Her surprise quickly disappeared, giving way to amusement again. "You _really_ aren't from around here, aren't you? Yes, I'm an elf of the altmer variety, otherwise known as the "high elves", especially from the more clueless of humans."

The witch hunter nodded, processing this information. High elves seem to be present in Tamriel as in the Old World, despite minor differences in appearance. He idly wondered if the dunmer had cousins somewhere in the Old World too.

"Very well. To answer your question, I did not intend to come to Skyrim. I arrived here as a result of a spell casted by an arch-necromancer, and I intend to eventually reverse its effects as soon as I find the means to do so."

"So you intend to return home? Where is "home", exactly?"

Hans shook his head. "I don't know. Tell me about the nearest wizard college, and perhaps I'll remember."

"A-ha. Sly, very sly. The College of Winterhold is due north, I heard it's what passes for a mage's university for nords."

 _This should be my next stop._ "Now I remember. I come from Wissenland, a province under the jurisdiction of the Empire of Sigmar."

"Another empire? Interesting. Tell me then, Hans, what kind of people lived in this Empire of yours, and who rules it?"

Hans was beginning to tire of the unsubtle interrogation he was being subjected to. "Perhaps it js time to stop asking this kind of questions for now, Frau Solana. We should focus on the task ahead from now on."

The witch rolled her eyes. "Fine, have it your way. I believe I'll eventually learn all about this Empire of Sigmar at any rate. 'Tis only a matter of time."

Hans shrugged. "Good luck."

It wasn't any longer before the four of them reached their destination, a secluded cave hidden under the shadows of trees and marked with the remains of dead animals. Lod crouched behind a boulder and slowly inched toward the mouth of the cave, signalling his three comrades to follow.

"Steady, steady." Lod pulled out a small amulet inscribed with the image of a warhorn from his chainmail shirt and kissed it. "Keep a low profile. Remember what I told you: the jarl wants all of these marauding bastards dead, don't bother sparing them should they surrender."

The young adventurer quietly unsheathed his sword, while Hans pulled out his dirk and hand-axe, wielding both weapons in each hand.

"Look ahead," Under the cover of shadows, Solana pointed the tip of her staff above. "There are three of them walking back and forth on a ledge over there. These idiots must be serving as lookouts for their comrades deeper in the cave."

Lod licked his lips. "Alright, but they're too far ahead. How do we get rid of them without drawing the rest of the scum hiding in this cave to us?"

Solana adopted a wry expression. "Stealth? From a nord? How quaint."

"Got a better idea that won't get the lot of us killed, milady?" Lod frowned, annoyed.

"Why are you so afraid of a few scoundrels when you have _me_ on your side?" Solana said, as though lecturing a child. "Why bother with sneaking about — let's just kill them and deal with their friends as they come."

Hans sighed as the jarl's man and the witch continued to argue on how to approach the situation, all while the full-plated adventurer helplessly looked on in confusion.

"What do we do now, sir?" The lad asked the witch hunter. By now, Lod's argument with Solana devolved into name-calling punctuated by insults.

Hans looked ahead and examined the rocks forming the ledge. It was mossy, and had enough gaps and cracks to make climbing by hand possible. "Follow my lead."

The witch hunter, trailed by his mercenary comrade, advanced deeper into the cave as quietly as they could. After reaching a safe spot, Hans turned to the lad. "Listen close. I'm going to climb up this rock, but you can't do that quietly enough without alerting our enemies in that armour."

"Um, what do you want me to do, then?"

"Draw their attention. Keep them from discovering me before I can close into range."

The young man tried to argue, but Hans cut him off by grabbing his collar and pushing him out into the open.

"Hey, what the hell?" One of the bandits could be heard shouting. "You down there! Step into the light and reveal yourself!"

"Ah, I um, it's me! I just came back from my, uh, walk!" The adventurer stammered out a response.

With practiced ease, the witch hunter scaled his way up into the ledge. With his targets in sight, he slowly manoeuvred into place...

"...You're not one of our boys, you tin-plated, milk-drinking liar! Who the hell sent you here?"

"O-oh, well, uhm, I... I came to join you! I h-heard you've plenty of coin... a-and the jarl's men are no match for you!"

Hans watched one of the bandits move next to a lever of some kind built into the face of a rock, his gloved hand clasping it.

"You have five seconds to tell us who sent you, boy! Look above you! Ranulf's been itchin' to use this shit he cobbled together for trespassing idiots like you!"

As he treaded closer, the witch hunter looked up to see where the lever led to and saw half a dozen large boulders suspended by a ramshackle, crane-like machine. Should the bandit trigger it, the lad would be flattened under the rocks... and it would make one hell of a racket.

"Oh, sweet merciful Arkay, no! Alright, alright! The jarl's people sent me, okay? I was just—"

Like a living shadow, Hans emerged from hiding, weapons bared. One of the three outlaws turned to the side and opened his mouth to scream, only to have his skull split in half by an axe to the face.

The dead man's friend behind him uttered a curse and quickly brought her shortbow to bear on the witch hunter. Thinking quickly, Hans clutched the dead man's blood-spattered collar and used him to shield himself from the archer's initial volley, before charging ahead and smashing the corpse against his attacker, throwing her off-balance. With a grimace behind his mask, Hans split the bandit archer's weapon in half with a single, well-aimed strike, then used his momentum to impale his disarmed opponent's throat with the dirk in his off-hand. With the archer reeling and effectively neutralised, Hans finished her by kicking her off the ledge.

The witch hunter let out a breath, then slowly swivelled his head to the side to stare at the third raider, who was quivering in his boots as he frantically pulled the lever up and down to no avail. By sheer luck or simply because the bandits were hardly adept engineers, it seemed that the contraption they rigged to kill intruders below failed to work.

Eventually, however, the third raider managed to muster the courage to put up his sword and charge the witch hunter. Hans merely stepped to the side to evade the man's clumsy thrust, and before the outlaw could even retract his weapon, the witch hunter cleaved deeply into his back with his axe, severing his opponent's spinal cord and forcing him down on his knees. Teeth clenched, Hans put the man out of his misery with an axe to the throat, beheading him rather violently.

The witch hunter wiped some of the blood from the lenses of his mask before climbing down. Looking around, he came upon the sight of his adventurer comrade lying unconscious underneath the broken body of the archer he had kicked off the ledge earlier.

Footsteps alerted the templar to someone approaching. He prepared himself to receive battle, but relaxed upon seeing Lod and Solana running to his aid. "Had enough of talking?"

"What happened to him?" Lod gestured at the fourth man in his company, who was still out cold.

"One of the bandits fell on top of him." Hans quickly explained. "He will live, but his contribution to our cause ends here. On the other hand, we still have our task to fulfil."

Solana smirked. Hans was beginning to think it was her default expression. "Well, aren't you the ever-diligent one. Since you're so eager to get blood all over yourself, perhaps you'd like to lead us further into the cave?"

Lod shakily nodded as he examined the corpse on top of the adventurer. "Aye, looks like you're much more capable than I am, stranger. Go on ahead and we'll follow your lead."

Hans nodded. "Let us proceed, then."

With the sentries killed without raising an alarm, the three of them traversed the depths of the cave proper without opposition. The path inside was worn, and well-illuminated, and there were barrels filled with food, alcoholic drinks, and other necessities scattered along the way.

Lod took the time to take a swig from a bottle he pilfered along the way. "Ah. This is Black-Briar mead — overpriced honeyed piss-water, is what it is. These bandits have shit taste."

Hans ignored him. To his silent consternation, Solana did not. "Is this really the time to behave like a common tavern lout, nord?"

Soon enough, the company of three cleared a path to a door made out of a dark, steel-like material. Hans carefully pushed it aside, revealing an ancient, underground nordic feasting hall — now the hideout of a heavily-armed bandit clan. Just beyond Hans and his comrades, around two dozen raiders, thieves, outlaws and smugglers congregated around tables and campfire spits, eating and drinking, laughing and gambling. Some revelled in the company of scantily-clad women, while others fenced off their ill-gotten gains among one another.

Hans dared to look ahead another second more before quickly shutting the black door, avoiding being spotted by bandit sentries just in time. Turning around, he was greeted with the expectant looks of his two erstwhile companions.

"Well? What'd you see, stranger?"

"Yes, do not keep us in suspense, if you'd please."

Hans breathed in and out. "I counted at least ten of them concentrated behind that door, with more further down the hall — perhaps thirty in total. They seem unaware of our presence still. If we strike quickly with all our might, we should be able to scatter them, allowing us to—"

"Thirty bandits?" Lod shook his head in disbelief. "That's double the amount Dengeir told me." He mumbled under his breath, perhaps to himself. He looked to both Hans and Solana with a determined look in his eyes. "I hope you have a plan."

"As a matter of fact, I brought tools for situations like these." Hans said, patting his coat and causing it to make a clunking sound. He looked to Solana. "I have not seen you use your abilities in combat just yet, witch. I need to know what you're capable of before we can begin our attack."

"Why, of course, dear Hans. Anything for our leader." The witch smiled a bit too sweetly to be sincere. She flourished her unoccupied hand, causing tiny sparks to flit through her delicate fingers. "I can give our foes the last shock of their lives even from a distance... or perhaps you'd like me to be a bit more straightforward and smother them in flames instead?" The sparks vanished, replaced by a hovering ball of magical fire that floated above Solana's palm.

She tittered mischievously, "Personally, I find Destruction magic to be quite dull. Why not toy with the enemy first by making him fight foes he cannot see?" The fireball hovering above Solana's palm turned into a purple orb. She waved it in front of Lod, causing the nord warrior to vanish before Hans' sight.

"Or force him to fight his friends?" The black orb turned red, causing Lod to appear again, but now with eyes that sparked with bloody murder. He raised his shield and pulled his mace back to strike Solana with it, only for the altmer to hit him with a green orb she conjured from her staff, immediately defusing the nord's fury and replacing it with open-mouthed bliss. "Or even make him forget that you were his enemy in the first place?"

"Impressive." Hans was astonished to see spells he hadn't seen before, but he was much more concerned of the fact that Solana just demonstrated her magic to his face, but he did not detect even the tiniest ounce of the Winds empowering her. Either being transported to another continent tampered with his ability to sense magic, or Solana was simply able to cast spells without harnessing the Winds of Magic, like a proper wizard.

"Indeed. A man can go very far with an altmer sorceress at his disposal." With another flourish of the hand, Solana's orb fizzled out. Lod immediately regained his senses, looking quite dazed from his ordeal. "So, fearless leader, how can I make the best use of my talents?"

Hans thought on it for a second. He was just about to come to a decision, when the door beside him suddenly burst open, and out came an unbalanced breton with a very flushed, grimacing face. The bandit promptly emptied the contents of his stomach into the floor, splattering Hans' boots with foul-smelling vomit.

"So much for stealth." Solana deadpanned.

Alerted by the altmer's voice, the sickened breton looked up from the messy floor and immediately came face-to-face with the barrel of a pistol. "What the—"

Blood, skull fragments and bits of his own brain painted the walls behind the unlucky raider. Sneering, Hans discarded the spent firearm, drew another from his coat, and quickly used it to shoot one of the two sentries standing guard behind the door dead. The other sentry got as far as to draw his weapon before Hans crossed the distance between them and axed him on the face, splitting his skull wide open.

"By the gods!" One of the bandits inside the hall shot up from his chair, shouting in alarm. "Look out, lads! We've got compa—" He was suddenly knocked off his feet and propelled to a nearby wall, courtesy of a thunderbolt from Solana.

Hans unpinned one of the incendiary explosives he had hidden under his coat. Igniting its fuse, the witch hunter lobbed the bomb toward a group of bandits clustered around the largest gambling table in the hall. By the time the raiders had begun to collectively realise they were under attack, the bomb detonated and doused a chunk of them in burning fuel, causing those nearby to scatter.

"We're in the shit now!" Lod blocked a slash of the sword from a bandit, then used his shield to push his assailant back. "Defend yourselves!"

With his dirk on one hand and a loaded pistol in the other, Hans evaded a greatsword thrust, then pivoted to the side to duck under a heavy swing. With blinding speed, the witch hunter surged upward and buried his dirk into his vulnerable attacker's side, then followed it up by retracting his blade and puncturing the raider's heart, then his throat. Pushing his dying opponent aside to face an approaching swordswoman, Hans used his dirk to deflect his foe's overhead slash before shoving his pistol into the bandit's face and opening fire, blowing the contents of her skull out of her head.

Meanwhile, Frau Solana unleashed a terrifying arsenal of spells on her foes with a barely-restrained, sadistic smile on her face. She shot blue lightning from her fingertips and struck down archers from long range, occasionally using bursts of flame and long sweeps or thrusts with her staff to keep melee attackers at bay. When the opportunity presented itself, the altmer witch turned frenzied bandits against each other with a mere wave of her hand, chuckling as she watched former comrades hack one another to bits.

"Are you enjoying this, Hans?" Solana blasted a raider with a thunderbolt at point-blank range, hurling the woman across the room. "Do try to keep up, why don't you!" She deflected a spear thrust with her staff and promptly bathed the offending spearman in magical flames.

The witch hunter kept silent as he carved a bloody path into the battered raiders' ranks. After finishing off a downed opponent with a bullet to the head, Hans discarded his spent firearm and moved to engage the closest enemy warrior, which was another archer occupied by Lod. With his prey's back turned toward him, Hans sprinted forth and jumped as he lunged with his dirk, easily piercing through the bandit archer's chainmail shirt and running him through the chest. As the witch hunter's latest victim stumbled to the floor, Hans reached into the falling outlaw's belt with his unoccupied hand and clasped the grip of a sheathed longsword.

"DIE, BIRD-BASTARD!"

A warhammer-wielding bandit with severe burns to the right side of his face and neck foolishly announced his presence as he charged at Hans from behind. In response, as he drew the archer's blade from its scabbard, Hans turned his drawing motion into a cutting one as he swivelled to the side, slashing a trench into the charging outlaw's belly, halting him in his tracks as his innards spilled out of his wound and into the floor.

Between the witch hunter's speed and unprecedented skill-at-arms, along with the altmer witch's sheer sorcerous might, the battle was soon brought to a bloody end, with the broken bodies of the raiders that used to terrorise Falkreath strewn about in every corner of the hall.

Two bandits, the only survivors of the onslaught wrought by Hans and his company, slowly inched away from the blood-spattered witch hunter as the latter strode toward them, loading new shot and powder into his handgun as he did so.

Eventually, one of them dropped his weapons, turned tail and ran. The other also dropped his weapons, but stayed put as he raised his empty hands in the air in surrender.

"You've proven your strength, outsider — I won't waste my life trying to fight you!" The surrendering bandit said. "Take me back to Falkreath. Please, I don't want to— hargh!"

"Nordischer Schwein!" Hans finished reloading and promptly smashed his gunstock into the bandit's ribs, cutting him off and sending him sprawling on the floor, writhing in silent agony. "Halt deine verdammte Schnauze!"

Solana liesurely walked over to Hans. "Look at that one go..." She pointed to the other bandit, who was already halfway through to the door. "By the gods, he sure is quick on his feet. Perhaps we should do something about him before he gets away to murder, steal, or rape another day?"

Hans swung his boot and kicked the downed bandit scum on the mouth, knocking some of his teeth off. Without a word, he brought his handgun to bear and looked down its sights as he tried to line up a bead on the fleeing outlaw. Then, as soon as he had a clear shot, Hans fired and dropped the worthless coward with a bullet to the lung.

Solana opened her eyes and stopped covering her ears. She looked to the dying outlaw in the distance and nodded her head, seemingly impressed. "Wherever did you get these wonderful toys of yours, Hans?"

"Home." The witch hunter stood up. He looked down, and with a scowl, brought his gunstock down against the prone raider's back, stopping him from crawling away. "Where is Herr Lod?"

The witch let out an exaggerated groan and gestured behind her. "Over there, tending to his wounds or somesuch." In an instant, her fascinated tone shifted to a bored one; making her dislike for the new topic obvious.

"Hmph." Hans turned away and went to find his temporary employer. Before he left, he pointed to the bandit on the floor. "Kill this swine. Lod said his master did not want any of his despicable ilk taken alive, and I do not intend to argue otherwise."

"No, no, no... please..." The downed bandit pleaded as he squirmed on the floor in a pathetic heap.

Solana shrugged and prepared a spell. As he walked along the bloodied hall, Hans heard bloodcurdling screams from where he left the altmer.

He grimaced. Just as the witch hunter passed a corner, a flash of movement made him instinctively pull out a pistol, pointing it toward a small group of young nord women in hiding, all dressed in tight, revealing outfits and smelling faintly of fragrant oils.

"Are... are they gone? All d-dead?" One of them stuttered after mustering the courage to ask. This act caused the others to begin speaking all at once.

"They killed them all! Just three of them! They slaughtered our men!"

"By the gods, where am I supposed to earn septims now?"

"Is he... is he going to kill us next?"

Hans' frown deepened as he lowered his gun. He pointed to the door. "Leave, slatterns."

The girls were all too eager to scramble out of the hall. Hans watched the courtesans leave before continuing on his way.

"Hans." The witch hunter found Lod much further back in the hall. "Bloody good job back there."

The nord was sitting on a stool, just like the first time Hans saw him. This time, however, Lod was treating his own wounds with potions, bandages, and a bottle of ale. "I've been meaning to ask you, though... where the _hell_ are you from? Nobody in Tamriel fought the way you did just then."

The witch hunter found a stool and sat down adjacent to Lod, propping his handgun up against the wall as he did so. "A nation of warriors far and away from here — an Empire founded by a mortal man who united his people and had since ascended to divinity."

"Sounds familiar." Lod hissed as he poured the ale into his open wound. "Is this mortal man called Tiber Septim, by any chance?"

"No." Hans shook his head. Sighing, he undid the straps to his bloodied mask and pried it off, exposing his face to the stale underground air. "So what now? I don't suppose we need to provide proof that we just eradicated this bandit clan, do we?"

Lod stared at his face for a moment before frowning. "None of the lads back home are going to believe it if we told them, to say nothing of how the jarl would react. No, we have to slice bits of these bastards and collect them in a bag — to show Dengeir that we can be trusted with more tasks like this in the future... and to receive our coin, of course."

The witch hunter shrugged. "In that case, what are we waiting for?" He stood up, drawing his reddened hand-axe. "We have heads to scalp."

Little did Hans know what the corpses he was just about to mutilate would have in store for him.

* * *

 **Back in Falkreath...**

"Thank you ever so much!" Ashryn shook hands with the old redguard woman before her, smiling ear-to-ear. "I've heard a lot about you from my old master in Cyrodiil... and I'm glad to find out he wasn't exaggerating this time."

"Of course." The old woman nodded, placing her hand on Ashryn's shoulder. "Be safe out there, dear. The road north is treacherous; more so than ever before."

Ashryn nodded and bid her farewells. It was a few hours past afternoon when she turned around and left Jarl Dengeir's longhouse, with a sea of merchants and their clients congregated in front of her, and the thought of trying to find where Hans had gone off to already on her mind.

 _Now, if I was a foreigner with a funny accent and a desire to stay out of sight in the middle of an unfamiliar city, where would I go to?_ Ashryn's thoughts resounded. She ran a few guesses in her mind until she heard shouting in the distance, drowning out the unsynchronised calls of merchants hawking their wares.

"Make way, make way!" A group of Falkreath guards pushed through the crowd before Ashryn. "Do not be alarmed, nothing to see here! Move along and go about your business!"

Before long, Ashryn caught a glimpse of the source of the commotion: marching in between an altmer, a nord with a limp, and a man in a suit of battered full-plate armour, was Hans van Hal. He carried a brown sack that occasionally dripped blood into the ground, and his outfit was noticeably soaked with the red fluid. His expression was the one that disturbed Ashryn most, however — he had the thousand-yard stare of a soldier who just witnessed something most unsettling.

"Hans!" Ashryn shouted as she made her way through the crowd, trying to get the witch hunter's attention. "Hans, what happened to you?!"

Over the yelling and the other sounds in the crowd, Hans had no chance of hearing Ashryn. He continued on his way with his companions, oblivious to his charge calling him. Ashryn shook her head in annoyance and tried to push her way further into the crowd to reach Hans, but she was stopped by one of the guards.

"Hold on there, elf." The guard blocked Ashryn's way with her stocky body. "These people have business with both the jarl, and the guard captain. You'll have to wait until they're finished if you want to talk with them."

Ashryn opened her mouth to argue, only for more Falkreath citizens to crowd in and seperate her from the guard. Sighing in defeat, the dunmer extricated herself from the sea of people and eventually found herself inside a deserted inn, eating lunch and drinking the local mead by herself.

It was a pity. She had hoped to treat Hans to a few rounds of drinks so he could tell her all about the Old World and this Empire he served; perhaps she would travel there one day and become the first dunmer to explore this brave new continent, bringing much fame to her family name and House Redoran both? Or even better, perhaps she'd manage to learn new and exotic spells on her stay there? Thinking about the possibilities certainly had a way of exciting the young dunmer.

The sound of the door to the tavern swinging open shook Ashryn from her reverie, alerting her to the fact that her meal was getting cold. She put some pieces of her fried salmon into her mouth and chewed, then sipped at her mead, wishing it was flin or Cyrodilic brandy.

"—displayed quite the display of skill down in that dreadful, scum-infested crevice, and do know that I do not hand compliments lightly."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure, meine Frau."

Ashryn's ears perked at that. Slowly, she looked behind her shoulder. There, standing at the door was Hans, still looking a bit unsettled, his eyes somewhat unfocused.

The witch hunter wasn't alone, however.

"You know, I think I rather liked this "bounty hunter" business you have here." Conversing with the witch hunter was the robed altmer from earlier. Standing tall, beautiful, and utterly disdainful of everyone around her besides the human in front of her, she had the look of a woman born into wealth and noble tastes, even moreso compared to others of her kind. "Should the jarl delegate another task for you, Hans, know that I'll be glad for the opportunity to obliterate more bandit scum... and make some more coin, too."

"Of course." Hans dipped his head. "Thank you for your assistance, Frau Solana. Should I require more of your help, I know where to find you. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Leaving so soon?" The altmer smiled, teasingly. "And here I am, thinking that we should be sharing a few drinks as a toast to our new partnership. Stay a while, good fellow."

Ashryn looked closer. She thought she could make out Hans actually considering the offer, at least until he let out a breath and shook his head. "I apologise. I left a friend of mine to do her business here in Falkreath earlier this day, and I'm afraid I must go find her now, to make sure she stays safe."

 _Says the man who values his own safety very poorly..._ Ashryn thought to herself.

The altmer sighed. "If that's the case, then do go on. Don't let me keep you from this little friend of yours. Farewell, and try not to get killed out there, Hans."

The witch hunter nodded. "Goodbye, elf. Oh, and one more thing," The misty look in his eyes dissipated in that moment, replaced by steely purpose and clarity. "I would like to have my pistol back now, if you'd please."

"Your... pistol?" The altmer appeared confused, but Ashryn suspected she knew exactly what Hans was referring to. "Whatever do you mean?"

"This," Hans pulled out one of the devices he always seemed to carry inside his coat and showed it to the altmer. "Is a pistol." To Ashryn, it resembled a tube with a grip, fashioned out of engraved metal and wood. "I saw you taking one of these from the floor when you thought I was too busy to notice. Return it to me."

"Well, well. Deadly and cunning, polite _and_ perceptive..." Appearing sincerely impressed, the altmer produced an identical copy of the device Hans was holding. "You are full of surprises, are you? Pray tell, were you looking my way the entire time you were scalping heads?"

Hans snatched what was rightfully his from the altmer's grasp. "You cannot fault me for keeping an eye on the thing that posed the most threat to me in that hall, meine Frau." He tucked his pistols back into his coat and doffed his hat to her. "Haben Sie einen schönen Tag."

Ashryn watched the witch hunter turn around and walk out of sight. The altmer sighed in obvious displeasure as she entered the tavern proper, mumbling something under her breath. Ashryn was quick to turn back to her food and pull up her hood as the altmer passed by her. The dunmer waited until the altmer ascended a flight of stairs and disappeared before making her move.

 _Maybe I should keep an eye on that one, too._ Thought Ashryn as she stood up and quietly left the tavern to catch up to Hans. Thankfully, the witch hunter hadn't already walked too far ahead.

"Fräulein," The templar greeted Ashryn as she approached. "Have you found what you were looking for? We should return to Vanhaldenschlosse before night falls and darkens our road."

"Yes, it's all here." She patted the satchel hanging by her side. "And here." She put a finger to her temple. "What have you been up to, by the way?"

"Just making some coin, nothing too complicated." He, of course, still tried to keep vague. The dried bloodstains on his uniform told Ashryn all she needed to know about Hans' method of "making some coin", however. "Are you ready to leave?"

Ashryn nodded. "Let's get out of here."


	4. Employment

... _sword to his chest, t_ _he look on the breton's face was priceless! His idiot bodyguards never did expect us coming down from..._

 _...the lad's mine, Thomjolf! Look elsewhere, you flea-ridden sheep-fondler. I'll..._

 _...is getting nervous with us prowling his lands. I heard the paranoid milk-drinker's offering a good amount of coin for bastard sellswords to root us out and..._

 _...got a pretty little mouth on this one. Would be nice to see him put it to work on_ —

Hans opened his eyes.

The witch hunter gasped and stumbled a few steps back. He was shocked to find himself in his nightclothes while standing before an eroded statue of Frederick van Hal flanked by a pair of skeletal hounds. Looking around, he then came to the disturbing realisation that he had somehow made his way to Vanhaldenschlosse's courtyard at some point during his sleep.

It was then that he also realised how cold it was outside, and he promptly scrambled his way back indoors. Shivering, nauseous, and more than a little disoriented, the witch hunter slowly tried to find his way back to his quarters inside the Sylvanian fortress, which was easier said than done.

In addition to the silent, labyrinthine corridors he was forced to navigate, Hans also had to contend with how dark it was. Time seemed to shift in strange ways as he moved along, and the stairway he tried to ascend seemed to stretch up endlessly into oblivion.

It was a while until Hans seemed to find himself on the right floor. He was a few paces ahead, however, when he started hearing something distinctly unusual coming from the darkened hallway up ahead.

Hastily appropriating the decaying kriegsmesser blade from the nearby empty suit of armour, the witch hunter cautiously advanced forth, his seasoned gaze scanning the way ahead for threats.

Soon, Hans drew close enough to hear the noises much more clearly. He was, of course, perturbed to hear the sound of an untuned string instrument. The off-key strumming continued over and over, at speeds and frequencies that varied at seemingly random intervals.

Steeling himself for an ambush, Hans edged his way closer to the noise. Eventually, he reached a partially-closed door, one that seemingly led to Vanhaldenschlosse's theatre hall.

Muttering a quick prayer to Sigmar and Morr, Hans slowly pushed the door open, careful not to make too much noise. The witch hunter entered the theatre expecting to face restless spirits of those damned in these halls, or even leftover heretical sorceries from Frederick van Hal's ritual, but instead, he came upon Miraala Nirdil seated upon one of the ruined desks, cradling the instrument he kept hearing outside, with what appeared to be an annoyed look on her elven face.

"Worthless, bloody thing..." Frau Nirdil mumbled to herself as she kept strumming the instrument, which was clearly some kind of Estalian-made guitar. All around her, several dozen lit candles provided some measure of illumination. "...damned foreigners couldn't even make a proper lute..."

"Meine Frau," Hans chose to speak up, not quite hiding the suspicion in his tone. "What are you doing here?"

The dunmer woman jolted up at once, almost dropping the instrument she had in her hands. When she sighted Hans emerging from the shadows, she relaxed her stance. "Mr. van Hal. I'm... surprised to see you here."

A wave of anger suddenly overtook the witch hunter. He balled his hands tightly and bit his lip to prevent a furious outburst from leaving his mouth. Fortunately, his senses returned as quickly as they abandoned him.

"Please. I... _insist,_ that you call me by _Hans_ , milady." His voice was terse and clipped, seething with barely-restrained fury. Somewhat more forcefully than he intended, the witch hunter cast away the rusty blade he was holding, letting it clatter loudly against the cobblestone floor.

"Just... tell me why are you up here this late at night."

The ash-skinned elf looked to the guitar in her hands, the theatre hall around her, then back to Hans. "I couldn't sleep." She said, rather simply.

"You couldn't sleep." Hans repeated, disbelief plain in his voice.

"Yes," Miraala nodded, somewhat too enthusiastically so. "I kept dreaming about the life we had to leave behind in Cyrodiil. I got up from bed, put on my clothes and started walking along the corridors, when I came across this place in particular."

She sighed, longingly. "I used to be one of the most respected musicians back home, you know? For fifty years, I've worked to establish my reputation, and now it's all gone. Because of the Thalmor, we had to give up almost everything we've worked to earn..."

Hans frowned, not letting his sympathy for the elf's plight become too obvious. Instead, he reached out with his hands to her. "If I may...?"

"Hmm?" Miraala looked on in confusion. She quickly realised the witch hunter was referring to the guitar. "Ah, yes. Take it." She handed the instrument over without hesitation. "It's pretty, but the strings are very poorly-done. I'm a master with lutes, but I can't seem to get a decent tune out of that thing."

Upon receiving the guitar, Hans almost dropped it upon sensing the obscene amounts of magical warding imbued into the instrument. If he had to hazard a guess, these wards were the reason it managed to stay in pristine condition after many, many centuries spent rotting away in disuse.

"I am able to see why," Hans said, eyeing the guitar's gilded head. "The strings are untuned."

Miraala observed Hans as he adjusted the tuning pegs, taking experimental strums on the strings as he did so. Eventually, after a moment, he seemed to find a setting that suited him.

"This is not a lute, by the way." Hans said, displaying the instrument to Miraala, taking care to show her the masterful craftsmanship it took to fashion it, as well as the beautiful engravings carved into the body. "Lutes are dropping out of fashion in the Old World, and as far as I'm aware, you'll only see them commonly used in some backwater Bretonnian alehouse here and there."

"So, what do you call this, then?"

"Notice the amount of strings here, the different shape of the neck, and the body's curved profile? This work of Estalian art is called a "guitar", meine Frau."

Miraala slowly nodded. "I see. And how exactly is this guitar of yours any different to lutes?"

"Watch. Allow me to show you."

The witch hunter found himself a seat, then propped the guitar against his body. Positioning his fingers to their places, he began to play the first few notes of an old song of his teenage years — _Das Mädchen von Wittenhausen._ The old lessons he took as a part of his noble upbringing in his father's court came rushing back to his mind, and his fingers seemed to move on their own as he continued to play.

The dunmeri musician observed Hans' fingers flit along the guitar's strings with keen interest. "Not... bad. I mean, it's not as good as a proper lute, but it's certainly a start."

Hans half-smiled, bittersweet memories of his childhood lingering in his mind. Seamlessly, he shifted to a more complicated song — the _Kreutzhofenlied_ , which was an old favourite of his late mother, as well as most old-fashioned Kreutzhofen natives. Midway through the piece, before Miraala could properly appreciate its melody, Hans shifted again, and this time, to the chorus of a classic Imperial patriotic song, _Die Wacht am Reik._

"Lieb Sigmarreich, magst ruhig sein, lieb Sigmarreich, magst ruhig sein..." Hans sang along to the tune, as was proper for the piece. "Fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Reik... fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Reik."

Miraala clapped a little as Hans finished and set the guitar down. "Good show, sir. I'll admit it — I'm delighted to see you perform."

Hans politely smiled at the praise. "Thank you."

"I've heard better performances, though." Miraala continued. "You certainly know what you're doing with that instrument, but I'd keep myself from singing next time, if I were you. No offence intended, human, but... to put it in simple terms, you're an atrocious singer."

At this, Hans chuckled. "Ah, you wound me terribly, Frau Nirdil."

"I only speak the truth," She teased. "Take heart — very few have the voice and the skill to meet _my_ standards. I'm sure you'll do fine as a bard in one of those "backwater Bretonnian alehouses" here and there."

"Perhaps I'll take up your advice one day," The witch hunter stood up, his previous mirth quickly leaving his face. "If I somehow found a way to return to the Old World, that is. I bid you a good evening, meine Frau."

"I'll see you in the morning, then." Miraala nodded. She waited until he disappeared out the door. "...now, if I remember correctly..."

The dunmer musician wasted no time putting all she observed to work on the guitar. Indeed, she had very little sleep, that night.

* * *

In the morning, after breakfast and his early morning cup of tea, Endain Nirdil sat and listened intently to Hans and Ashryn as they recalled their visit to Falkreath. The dunmer scholar was pleased to hear that everything in their journey proceeded as planned, and was positively giddy upon being offered half of the substantial amount of septims Hans had procured as a reward for his brief foray into the realm of bounty hunting for his own family's use.

For his part, Hans "neglected" to mention what he saw upon scalping the corpses of the bandits he and his temporary companions made. He was quite sure he was hallucinating from being high off the rush of battle, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had been seeing the memories of his dead victims in some way. It was either that, or he had somehow suppressed the memories of his previous life as a remorseless murderer, smuggler, and serial rapist and slaver.

Ashryn seemed to notice the templar's hollow, cold-eyed look, but wisely decided against bringing it up. Thanks to his harrowing line of work and the necessary viciousness he had to commit every now and then, Hans knew his grip on his own sanity was tenuous at best. If these dark-skinned elves valued their lives, it would be prudent not to test it even further.

A few weeks passed by as the templar and the Nirdils made themselves comfortable as much as they can in cold Vanhaldenschlosse. While the dunmer kept themselves busy by furnishing the ancestral halls of his lineage, foraging and hunting for food and other provisions in the wilderness, and entertaining themselves with music and friendly conversations by hearthfire, Hans used the uncommon, peaceful state of things to survey the area and keep his skills sharp when this respite from battle inevitably passes.

With rarely a moment to rest in between his self-imposed tasks, the witch hunter mapped the snow-covered woodlands around the fortress, memorising potential choke-points and escape routes in case of enemy attack. He trained his body for several hours on end, lifting whatever heavy objects he could find in the ruins and running countless laps around the darkened halls and the frosted woods outside. He even hunted down game separately from the Nirdils, using his talent for tracking Nurglite heretics to find potential prey on his way through heavy snow and dense undergrowths.

And finally, through the use of a few certain letters of correspondence he recovered from the bandit hideout he and his previous allies eradicated, along with some translation work from Ashryn and directions from Endain, Hans ventured out further into the untamed Skyrim wilderness. There, the witch hunter started seeking out even more bandit hideouts with the express purpose of clearing and burning them out, just to keep himself from being too used to the notion of peace.

It was during one of these "hunts" that Hans encountered something he hadn't seen before. It was nighttime, and he was in the middle of inspecting the freshly-made tracks he discovered on his way to a known bandit lair, when his ears picked up the sound of snow being crushed underfoot repeatedly. Knowing he was no longer alone, the masked templar slinked off into the shadows of the woods above him, away from the revealing moonlight.

So focused on removing himself from sight was Hans, that he failed to look where he set his foot down. By the time a snare trap cleverly hidden in the snow had wrapped around his leg, Hans knew he was in for a bad time.

To his credit, the witch hunter made no sound as he was swiftly pulled up a tree by a thick length of rope, leaving his hat on the snow. Annoyed at himself for getting so easily caught in a trap made for animals, the witch hunter reached up to draw one of the knives strapped to his boots.

"Oku kaaka ahzirr raba etofor..."

Hans' body stiffened at the strange voice speaking in an unknown, rasping tongue. Looking down, he saw a pair of shadowy figures standing on the ground below, looking up at him with darkened and obscured faces.

"Saj jer krozij jan vaba fa ahzirr vara oku dorr?"

"Jat, ahziss krozij opa, liter. Bajiitu hazura vaba eks."

"Vara jer zav? Ahziss rabeka krozijka tasmiit ba zegata ba ifozay rakiit jan disshkrib ko oh vaba traajir opa shifli ba jajo."

"Jajo fa ahzmiti... jan dozh oh oku na foha apu iitay pe etofa."

Hans considered pulling out a pair of pistols and ending these jabbering strangers then and there, saving him the headache of dealing with them and their ugly language later with either words or righteous, Morr-blessed steel. Before he could do so, however, one of them drew what appeared to be a bow from their back.

"I suppose we will see your worth soon enough, nord." To his surprise, the thing spoke in perfectly understandable, albeit accented Tamrielic.

Hans grit his teeth and braced his body for impact as the figure loosed an arrow through the rope clasped around his leg, leaving him at gravity's mercy. As soon as he hit the ground, the witch hunter wasted no time pushing himself up to his feet, and in one swift motion, unsheathed his enchanted flammenschwert from his back while advancing menacingly, hoping to intimidate or startle his foes into giving him space.

"Kssssh, iho Khenarthi!" The cloaked figure closest to Hans exclaimed, hissing in surprise and instinctively backing away as Hans had hoped. Up close, however, the hunter felt irritated to still see his "visitors" clothed mostly in weathered cloaks, scuffed gambesons and face-obscuring shawls, cowls, and veils, disguising their true natures.

"Calm yourself, nord. We aren't here to pick a fight with you." The second, visibly taller and broader figure said in Tamrielic, despite the fact that they were simultaneously pulling out their hand-axe. Hans took note of how this figure radiated strength and confidence as they tensed up for battle.

"Yes, masked one, we come in peace!" The first, more lithely-profiled, bow-wielding figure added after re-composing themselves, stashing away their weapon and putting their empty hands up for Hans to see, as though for emphasis.

Hans stopped advancing, but kept his zweihänder at the ready. "Is that so?"

"It is the truth, strong and honourable nord." The first one reaffirmed, adjusting their stance to look more at ease. "Your name is Hans, yes? Our employer wants to have a word with you."

The witch hunter kept calm despite the urge to lash out in fury. "How did you know me? Who is this employer of yours?" He demanded, and when they hesitated to speak, he shouted, "Speak! Or perish where you stand!"

The first one flinched, as though struck. Hans saw a flash of movement behind them, near their feet, which were hidden under the snow. It reminded him of snakes, or an animal's bushy tail, for some reason.

"We were paid to track you down by one of our own, a wealthy merchant by the name of Vassa'dar, suspicious one." The second figure answered, slowly and reluctantly putting away their axe. "He has heard of your resounding success in destroying the infamous smuggling ring inside Skald's Folly Barrow on the jarl's behalf, and is most impressed with your bravery and strength."

The first one nodded in agreement with the second. "Yes. Vassa'dar then decided that for his next business move, he requires the skills of a talented warrior such as yourself."

At this, some of Hans' anger abated. He relaxed his stance and lowered his blade a little. "My time is valuable, and I do not hire myself out to anyone who asks. Return to your master, and tell him I refuse to play the part of a mercenary for the time being."

"I urge you to reconsider, nord. Our employer will pay you handsomely — fifteen thousand septims, and more business opportunities in the future for a job well done." The first one said, sounding displeased at Hans' refusal, but also relieved that battle seemed unlikely now.

"Fifteen thousand..." Swallowing his templar pride, Hans considered his less-than-ideal circumstances, then the offer itself. The amount of septims he was being offered was significantly more than his previous, already hefty reward. Hans had little need for coin himself, but if he had that much money, it would contribute much to his planned journey to head for the College of Winterhold. "And who, might I ask, would I be sent to kill this time?"

"Our employer does not require the services of an assassin, no." The first one continued. It was also then that Hans noticed more of their unusual traits, their somewhat elongated faces and unusual postures most of all. "At least, not at the time. He merely requires you to guard him and his wares as he makes his way to the holds of Whiterun and Windhelm to ply his trade."

Hans did not expect to be offered a job as a bodyguard for an affluent Tamrielic merchant. And Whiterun and Windhelm? Where in Skyrim were these places? "I see. How long is this journey going to take?"

"A little longer than three weeks, if things go well." The second one replied, shrugging their broad, visibly muscular shoulders.

Hans needed no more convincing, but he kept wary. "Fifteen thousand septims is a significant sum, one that I cannot ignore. However, before I accept your master's offer, I must ask something..."

"Oh?" The first one crossed their arms.

For a brief while, the witch hunter saw glowing orbs in the shadows behind their head-cloths. "I need you to tell me what you are. Both of you."

The figures looked to each other, seemingly perplexed at the hunter's honest inquiry.

"We are trackers from the deserts of Elsweyr, masked one. Is it not obvious by now?" The first one, who seemed to speak most out of the two, said.

"I'm not from around here, and you still haven't answered me." Hans could see the discomfort he was causing among the two. He cared not. "The only obvious thing by now is your inhumanity. I ask again, what are you?"

The second one bristled, clearly insulted. "Of course we are not human! This one is not ashamed to admit he is of the khajiit!" In one swift movement, he tore away the cloths obscuring his face, revealing his strikingly feline features to the shocked witch hunter. "There! Happy now?"

 _Sigmar._ Words failed the hunter, not quite comprehending what he was seeing. This... _thing_ before him had the head and facial structure of the horrific result of an unholy fusion between a predatory felid and a human, with piercing, slit-pupiled eyes of a seafoam green hue, and yellowish-brown fur sprinkled liberally with circles of dark spots, much like a Lustrian man-eater jaguar's own hide.

Hans instinctively reached for a pistol in his coat, but stopped himself in time. While most other templars were unlikely to think about assessing their situation first before springing into action, Johannes van Hal was different from his peers. Is this strange creature a beastman, or merely a hideously-deformed mutant? Perhaps some combination of both, or even neither? The Order teaches that all mutants deserved nothing short of a swift and painful death at the hands of Sigmar's faithful, but were these things even altered humans in the first place?

Hans felt himself hesitate to act upon considering the possibility that these two were not mutants, and instead, were members of an undocumented, entirely seperate race of talking, bipedal cats. The witch hunter's judgement was tested even more when he realised his witch-sense was not detecting any signs of obvious Chaotic corruption festering within them, like he easily would in an ungor raider or a hapless peasant trying to hide his mutated bits.

"I cannot see your face, but you seem surprised, human. Have you truly never seen my kind before?" The first "khajiit" followed the other, removing the veil and shawl from her head.

This catfolk tracker possessed almost the same fur colouring as the other, only brindled and a shade darker. Her eyes were an unusual shade of light blue, however, almost like the colour of the morning sky. Not only that, but the smooth, feminine slenderness of her face, along with the curvy shape of her body and the pitch of her voice made Hans believe she was female.

"My name is Qa'ara, by the way. And as mentioned before, I work as a tracker and a huntress on occasion, whenever either of us begins craving after venison or wild pork." The khajiit Hans was examining said, matter-of-factly.

Before Hans could bluntly ask Qa'ara whether she hunted humans for their meat as well, she gestured to her fellow cat-person-mutant-thing and started speaking before he could. "And this is my mate, Sinfahran. We look forward to working with you."

The witch hunter did not immediately respond, as his mind still reeled at the absurdity of his situation. Were these creatures in Sigmar's Empire, his decision would come swiftly; within seconds, he'd have subdued and captured these two before turning them in to the nearest Order chapterhouse for study and summary dissection. But alas, Hans had learned from his encounter with the Nirdils that when dealing with the natives of Tamriel, diplomacy _can_ be a useful tool.

The witch hunter silently prayed to Sigmar, imploring his god to strike him down now, lest his decision to consort with the khajiit instead of killing them both on the spot turn him away from the path of righteousness later on.

"Tell me where I am expected to appear, and I'll be there." He said, scooping his hat up from the ground and putting it back on. "I must warn the two of you, however... do _not_ try to follow me as I leave. I will know if you do, and I will make sure there will be not enough of you to bury. Am I understood?"

Qa'ara nodded a little hesitantly as she put her cloths back over her head, but Sinfahran appeared less than pleased at being threatened.

"Very well. Come meet us outside the gates at Helgen. Vassa'dar's caravan should be there waiting for us, assuming we make it a priority to get there." Qa'ara said, causing Hans to wonder where exactly Helgen was. "Until we meet again, human. Be careful out he—"

"GET DOWN!"

Hans watched as Sinfahran tackled his partner to the snow, narrowly sparing her from being shafted by an assassin's arrow.

Eyes widening in alarm behind his beaked mask, the witch hunter backed into the shadows and hid himself from sight. His grip on his zweihänder tightened as he looked to where the arrow came from.

A mismatched band of scoundrels and highwaymen wearing scrap armour and wielding an array of rusty blades and wooden clubs appeared into view. At the fore of their disorganised advance, a grizzled, musclebound raider saddled atop a fierce-looking warhorse led the charge, screaming an inarticulate battle cry as he hefted the bearded great-axe he was holding.

Recognising these particular bandits as the ones he was looking for from the letters, Hans moved into position. Using the exposed khajiit trackers as bait to draw his prey in, the witch hunter prepared to intercept the mounted raider's charge.

"Get up, kitten, quickly!" Sinfahran frantically helped Qa'ara up to her feet. "There's too many of them. We have to get out of here before—"

Upon sensing the mounted raider thundering closer and closer, the feline trackers looked to their impending doom, knowing it was too late to move out of the way.

As his destrier crossed the point of no return, the mounted raider bellowed out a laugh as he lifted his great-axe to strike both khajiiti trackers down in one fell swing. It was then that Hans chose to reveal himself from behind a tree, his flammenschwert already poised to strike the bandit and use his momentum against him.

"By Talos, what—" The mounted raider reacted too late. Hans angled his blade upward and put all his considerable strength into his swing as he aimed for the raider's warhorse. When his attack struck true, his zweihänder's flame-bladed, magically-infused edge almost effortlessly carved through the animal's thick, trunk-like neck.

Warm equine blood splashed against Hans' uniform and mask as he messily beheaded his opponent's horse from under him, causing the shocked bandit to tumble and crash into the snow along with his steed's headless carcass.

Surprisingly, the bandit did not seem too injured upon managing to crawl his way back to his feet. He spared a single mournful glance at his dead mount, providing Hans with the exact opportunity he needed to take the initiative.

"MORR TAKE YOU!" The witch hunter shouted, as he descended upon the distracted raider.

Meanwhile, Qa'ara and Sinfahran had just managed to move away from being crushed by the headless destrier's tumbling corpse. Qa'ara, infuriated at the fact that she needed to be saved from harm by her lover twice in quick succession, sharply drew her bow, nocked an arrow by the string, and took aim where she last saw the mounted raider, fully intending on taking his life. Instead of seeing the savage helpless on the snow with his limbs twisted out of place, Qa'ara's slitted eyes grew wide at witnessing the brutal scene before her.

The dismounted bandit's massive axe lay uselessly on the snow in two pieces, cleaved neatly by the haft. The bandit himself was already on his knees on a pile of blood-soaked snow, his nose smashed into his face and right hand reduced to a severed, oozing stump.

His opponent was already far past defeated, but Hans never believed in leaving his grisly work unfinished. Showing typical Sigmarite templar "compassion" for the vanquished, he mercilessly drove the length of his blade into his kneeling opponent's abdomen, before twisting his grip and forcing it aside, gruesomely disembowelling the man. Morr's scythe claimed the dying bandit soon enough, when Hans seperated his head from his body.

The witch hunter barely had any time to take stock of his surroundings before he was set upon by his dead opponent's foot-slogging comrades. He parried an axe swing and sidestepped a dagger thrust, before whipping around and bisecting the offending raider from hip to shoulder. More arrived to test their mettle against the hunter, but he was quick to dispatch those that approached too close as they came, severing limbs and lopping off heads as he did.

Hans tried to keep calm, even as his defences were tested multiple times by the raiders circling around him. His guard was unfortunately, however ironclad, not without its faults.

After unsheathing his blade from a particularly troublesome swordsman's ribcage, Hans grunted as pain lanced repeatedly through his back. The flanking raider, a lad barely out of his teenage years, grinned in sadistic glee as he stabbed the witch hunter's back again and again with his dagger.

Hans was glad for the plate cuirass he wore under his coat. He made to turn around and deal with the pest behind him, only to watch as his attacker was yanked away by a barbed metal hook that came out of nowhere, piercing his shoulder multiple times. The lad yelped in pain as he was swept off his feet and dragged over the snow.

Sinfahran, the one holding the hook, heaved on the chains linking his weapon until he had dragged his screaming victim close enough, before abruptly silencing him with an axe to the throat.

"This one will not let the human have all the fun!" The khajiit exclaimed as he joined the battle, axe and hook in hand. After splitting a surprised bandit's skull in two, he swiftly and confidently waded into the fray, and in doing so, failed to notice the other bandit emerging from the frozen undergrowth, lining him up for a spear-throw.

"Look out!" Thankfully, Qa'ara was there to watch his back. Before the spear-man could hurl his weapon, he was feathered repeatedly by a hail of arrows that pinned him to the tree behind him. With her enemy dispatched, Qa'ara was quick to turn her bow against the others still standing.

Hans had no time to contemplate on the prospect of fighting side-by-side with a pair of feline beastmen, as more bandits came to surround the three of them. While he cannot pretend they were human, he Instead treated them like he would dwarfs or Loren elves — as allies of convenience.

"Close ranks!" The witch hunter rallied his temporary comrades-in-battle, even as he traded blows with three bandits at once. "Stand your ground! Maintain this position!"

With three skilled and experienced warriors fighting in close synchronisation with one another, the poorly-armed bandits stood next to no chance of victory. Around two dozen corpses lay scattered all around Hans and the trackers as those still alive and capable of running away did so, abandoning their comrades to their fate.

The witch hunter huffed out a breath, a little winded from the battle, but otherwise unharmed. He wasn't expecting to fight this many bandits when he set out into the wilderness, but he was still pleased at the amount of damage he delivered to the scum of Falkreath Hold.

Putting away his sword, Hans prepared to return to Vanhaldenschlosse, only to stop in his tracks upon seeing Sinfahran lying on the ground with Qa'ara on a knee beside him. The former wheezed and gasped as he bled out into the snow from several large gashes and lacerations, while the latter did what she could with bandages and a strange red bottle filled with an unknown liquid.

"Reckless! Always too reckless. As impulsive as an unblooded kit!" Qa'ara was clearly panicking, even as she tended to her lover's many wounds. As though to reinforce the point, her tail was trashing quite frantically behind her. "Stay awake, Sinfahran! Dying in Skyrim to a bunch of inbred nords is _not_ a part of our plan!"

The witch hunter supposed he had no further business with the khajiiti trackers, and Sinfahran's fate is at the hands of whatever god he owes patronage to... but it was poor form to leave a wounded ally behind, even one who wasn't human.

"We need to get him out of the open," Hans said, kneeling down next to Qa'ara on the snow. "The ones we routed could return. It's not safe here."

Hans' presence seemed to restore some of Qa'ara's composure, although she still seemed quite rattled, from what little he read from her half-hidden, inhuman face. "The nearest settlement from here is too far. By the time we get there, my mate will be dead. No, we will have to stay here and do what we can... it's the only way we can save his life."

"I disagree." The witch hunter shook his head. "There is a fortress not far from here, and I know a path that will allow us to cut straight through these woods to get there quickly. I know people who may be able to nurse him back to health, should we make it there."

"Don't be stupid!" Qa'ara turned and snapped at him. "I know this place — it's deserted except for raiders and bears; there's no such fortress for miles around!"

"Once again, I disagree." Hans' face remained impassive behind his mask. "I leave the decision for you to make whether you should or should not trust me. I suggest you decide quickly... time runs short for your... partner, and the wolves will come for all of us soon."

Qa'ara looked torn at what to do, at least until Sinfahran reached out and clasped her hand on his bandaged chest.

"I... I don't want to bleed out here in the cold, kitten..." He moaned.

Qa'ara gripped her lover's hand for a while, looking down at him mournfully. The moment soon passed when she wrapped his arm over her shoulder and hoisted him up, letting him support his weight using her own body.

"Take us to this fortress of yours, human." She said to Hans, her shadowed eyes glinting in determination. "And be quick. This better not be a waste of our time."

Taking the ineffectual threat astride, Hans nodded. "Sehr gut. Stick close, and we'll make it to Vanhaldenschlosse shortly."

* * *

Halfway through the journey back to Vanhaldenschlosse, the witch hunter kept a close eye for threats as he navigated the familiar woods, with the catfolk trackers close behind. He took extra care not to accidentally run into any more traps — that would be embarrassing.

"Nord! We need to stop!"

Hans looked behind his shoulder, and sure enough, he found the trackers struggling to catch up. _I am no nord..._

"Sinfahran's bandages are coming loose! I need to set him down and tighten them!" Qa'ara shouted.

The witch hunter flinched. He turned around and moved over to them, signalling for Qa'ara to lower her voice as he did.

"This one apologises," She whispered as he ambled close. "But I was not being overly dramatic without reason. My mate is losing too much blood." She set down Sinfahran by a tree, with his back to it.

Indeed, the witch hunter could see how drenched Sinfahran's primitive bandages were, reminding him of the times he worked alongside state troopers in the frontline of the Empire's many wars against its countless foes. "Yes... it's a miracle in itself that he has not died of blood loss yet."

Qa'ara was unamused by the comment, but kept quiet as she worked to re-fasten the less drenched bandages on Sinfahran's body, replacing those that were along the way.

Hans stood watch over the trackers for a while, but not for long, as Qa'ara's nimble fingers sped her work considerably. The khajiit tracker hoisted her partner up to stand again, but visibly struggled this time around, having had exhausted herself.

"We are taking too much time," Against his better judgement, Hans took hold of Sinfahran's other arm and looped it over his own shoulder. "Let me help."

Qa'ara said nothing, but she seemed accepting of the extra hand, if her relieved stance and her gentle nod were to be taken into account.

"I had thought... you didn't want us to follow you..." Sinfahran mumbled, half-conscious.

"I changed my mind." Hans replied, simply. "Let's get moving."

Reaching Vanhaldenschlosse did not take too long, as Hans had promised. While Sinfahran drifted in and out of consciousness, Qa'ara was amazed to see that there indeed was an ancient "nordic" fortress hidden away in these woods, and even more surprised to see a dunmer casually tanning a wolf's hide on a rack near the edifice's entrance.

The witch hunter did not expect to spot Endain out in the open, but he was grateful that he did. "Herr Nirdil!" He called out to the dunmer, using his unoccupied arm to wave for his attention. "Prepare our medical stores! I have wounded!"

"Hans! Is that you?" Endain seemed aghast to see the witch hunter helping a grievously wounded khajiit walk by supporting his weight. "Well, what in the name of Meridia just happened to you out there? And who are these people?"

"Hunting accident." Hans deadpanned in true Wissenlander fashion as his company neared. "Perhaps we can get acquainted with our new friends later? If we tarry too long, I'm afraid one of them will not last the night."

"I will _not_ lose my mate tonight, dark elf." Qa'ara bared her fangs at Endain, unsettling the bookish dunmer a little.

Hans glanced pointedly at Qa'ara. _Dark elf?_

"My apologies, honoured ja'khajiit," Endain meekly bowed his head. Upon straightening up, he looked to Hans, breaking him out of his reverie. "Just lead them to the solar, serjo. I'll get Miraala to take Osmund somewhere else in the fortress and have Ashryn prepared to receive our wounded guest. By now, she should know a thing or two about restoration magic. I hope."

"Danke." Hans doffed his hat at Endain before helping Qa'ara take Sinfahran into Vanhaldenschlosse proper.

It took them another moment to make their way to the lord's solar, already well-illuminated by the blazing sconces lining the walls. Wasting no time, Hans and Qa'ara set down Sinfahran by one of the beds and immediately began doing what they could for the wounded khajiit with what they have at hand.

"I ask for forgiveness in advance in the event that I accidentally make your partner's odds even worse. I am completely unfamiliar with your anatomy, you see." Hans mentioned. _At least, not yet._

"It's fine. Just do as you would a wounded human." Qa'ara had discarded her face-cloths a moment before, showing the completely focused expression on her face. "Besides the other, more beast-like breeds, the khajiit are not too dissimilar to your kind, nord."

 _I beg to differ,_ Hans considered answering. Instead, he put away his hat, unclasped his mask and let it fall. "Perhaps. But I'm not a nord."

Qa'ara paused in her ministrations to look at Hans' exposed face for the first time. She looked like she was about to say something, only to be interrupted by Ashryn knocking on the door and entering the room.

"Right, so I came here as fast as I could." The young dunmer removed her cloak and hung it by a rack nearby. "Let's see what we have... oh, dear Azura. He's bleeding to death."

"This one expresses hope that you have more to contribute besides pointing out the obvious, elf." Qa'ara snarked, somewhat curtly. "What do you know about restoration?"

Instead of answering, Ashryn knelt down beside Hans and began pulling things out of the red satchel she brought with her. The witch hunter thought she must be looking for medical supplies, but was proven wrong when she fished out a book.

"Let me see..." Ashryn began hastily flipping through the tome's pages, her crimson eyes darting back and forth. "Uh, so I just have to... hmm, but will it inadvertently harm the— well, okay..."

The dunmer mage stood back up, and with a flash of her hands, conjured a pair of orbs made out of incandescent light from her palms. "I need a bit of room. Stand back, please."

Hans and Qa'ara did as they were told, though Hans hesitated a bit. Ever since he arrived in Skyrim, he found that his witch-sense was mostly ineffective. While he could sense familiar magic well enough, such as the enchantments inscribed into the Estalian guitar in the theatre hall a few floors down, it appeared that whatever passed for sorceries in Tamriel completely bypassed him.

The thought of potential magic-users concealing their natures right under his nose infuriated the proud witch-finder. It was as as though he did not spend ten years of specialised templar training to better attune his innate ability to detect where the Winds of Magic blew to begin with. Smoothing out the annoyed scowl on his face, Hans reminded himself to ask either Endain or his daughter about magic in Tamriel at some point, when he had the time.

"Here goes..." Contrary to what Hans expected to see from an elf, Ashryn didn't unleash a spectacular array of healing magic on Sinfahran. Rather, she merely placed her glowing hands over the khajiit's body and began pulsing subtle waves of restorative energy into his wounded form.

The process took a minute. By then, Ashryn's dark skin had paled somewhat, and she looked ready to stop and rest. On the other hand, Sinfahran had lapsed into unconsciousness, no longer visibly struggling to hold on for dear life.

"I need more practice..." Ashryn dropped her hands and stumbled back. She would have fallen if she hadn't backed into a table. "Mmmh, maybe after..." She put a hand over her mouth and yawned. "...after a quick nap..."

"Is my mate going to be fine?" Qa'ara pointedly asked, still wary.

"Yes, I see no reason he shouldn't be. Keep his bandages secured and give him a few hours of rest... he should be back on his feet by then." The dunmer groggily replied as she pulled up a chair and sank into it. "You two wouldn't mind if I... hrmmh, if I..."

And just like that, she was fast asleep.

Hans sighed, letting his shoulders sag. He did not anticipate his evening to proceed like this, but all the same, he couldn't say he was displeased with it. This night had been productive, if nothing else.

"I'm sorry."

The witch hunter turned to the side, finding Qa'ara looking up at him steadily. "For roping you into our troubles, I mean. Without your help, we would never have left those woods alive."

She bowed deeply, a surprisingly civilised gesture from someone who appeared so savage and animalistic. "Qa'ara owes you a debt of gratitude, human. Ask anything of me, and I shall deliver."

Hans quirked a brow at her. _Such peculiar creatures, these catfolk._ "Do call me by Hans from now on, and know that I only did as a man of Sigmar should, for his comrades-in-arms. Your gratitude is unecessary, khajiit... but you're welcome, I suppose."

Instead of being relieved, strangely, Qa'ara seemed displeased at this. "...I do not like being beholden to someone indefinitely, Hans. Name your price for saving our lives, and I will consider us even."

Amused at the annoyed look on the khajiit's feline face, the witch hunter found himself smiling a bit, despite himself. "Fine. If you so insist on being indebted to me, then I'll play your little game."

His voice grew colder, less mirthful. "Just know that good things rarely come from owing something to a witch hunter. It would be wise to reconsider your offer, as what I might ask for could very well end up costing you much more than you can readily give, Fährtenleserinkatze."

Appropriately, some of Qa'ara's earlier nervousness returned, although she stubbornly refused to back down. "You are a strange one, human. Sinfahran and I will head for Falkreath at dawn, once he recovers. I just thought I'd let you know."

"I see." Hans nodded. "I'll make my preparations and say my farewells to the elves. I bid you a good night, we shall meet again in the morning."

As he turned and left, the witch hunter couldn't quite ignore the faint scowl on Qa'ara's mouth at his mention of "elves".

* * *

After a little rest, some food, a bit of early morning training, and after informing the Nirdils of his next job, Hans was ready to leave Vanhaldenschlosse again.

"Good luck out there." Endain offered his hand for the witch hunter to shake. "We'll be here when you get back. I mean, it's not like we have anywhere else to go, do we?"

"I never did get to properly thank you for looking after the fortress, Herr Nirdil." Hans reached out and took the dunmer's offered hand, shaking it firmly as he did. "So thanks. It means a lot to me."

"Say "tschüss" to Hans before he leaves, little one." Meanwhile, beside her husband, Miraala patted her young son's head.

"Tschüss." Osmund bowed, then, with some prompting from his mother, made the House Redoran salute. "Keep safe, Mr. Hans."

Hans smiled. He knelt down and put his hand over the child's shoulder. "Farewell, young Osmund Nirdil. Look after your parents while I'm gone, alright?"

Osmund nodded, eyes wide with the responsibility he was just given.

"I wish I can come with you." Ashryn said, glumly. She perked up almost immediately, however. "You know, I've always wanted to go on adventures and earn fame and gold, but I guess family comes first, right? Adventure is always out there, after all."

The witch hunter stood up and nodded, still smiling. "Perhaps another time, Fräulein. Until then, keep up with your training."

Ashryn laughed. "Oh, I will, Hans. Don't you worry."

"Are you ready to go, human?" The witch hunter heard Qa'ara's rasping voice calling for him outside.

"Yes, this is taking much too long." Sinfahran's own voice followed. "We should get moving soon. All this standing around is tiring this one's legs."

Hans rolled his eyes. "Patience, you two, I'm already on my way out!" He called back as he walked away, hoping that his decision to leave the comfort and safety of Vanhaldenschlosse for the hostile roads of Skyrim was not a mistake.

Not a moment too soon, Hans was once again out in the frozen Skyrim wilderness... and this time around, he was accompanied by a pair of giant cats who had the bright idea of walking upright and speaking Tamrielic.

"Sinfahran thinks it feels good to move around again." Sinfahran seemed no worse for wear after waking up. "Now, if only I can get my claws on the bastard that almost killed me, then this one would be a much happier khajiit." Unfortunately, his brazen attitude remained.

"Just be thankful you're still alive, you reckless idiot." Qa'ara nudged his arm with her elbow, with enough force to convey her annoyance. "And if you don't stop trying to solve everything through brute force instead of your wits, that can swiftly change in the next few days. Travelling through Skyrim is dangerous business, even for the most tenacious of our kind."

"Ah, you always try to suck the fun out of things, kitten." Sinfahran did not seem too bothered. "I was simply caught off-guard. Thanks to my brush with death, I've learned, and improved myself as a warrior. There will be no repeats of last evening's events, I assure you."

"And you'd be right, provided you stay away from sharp objects for the rest of your life." Hans remarked, off-handedly. "Make no mistake, Rattenfänger. You are strong, yes, but judging from your foolhardy performance the previous evening, you still have much to improve upon as a warrior."

Qa'ara made a sound that sounded like an amused chuckle, Hans mused. "This human can see through your bluster, _Do_ 'sinfahran _._ Consider this a bad sign, coming from someone clearly so used to battle."

Sinfahran wisely chose not to respond, and just like that, the rest of the journey to Helgen was spent in comfortable, relative silence.

"Helgen's gates are just ahead, come on." Qa'ara picked up the pace, her digitigrade legs and her gently-swaying tail reminding Hans of her race beneath those all-concealing veils and cloths.

"I can smell Atahnna's dumplings from here." Sinfahran said as he followed after his mate. "Good. We're just in time for lunch."

"How good are these dumplings?" Hans inquired, even as he tried to keep up with the swifter catfolk. "And how small and weatherproof are they? I grow tired of hardtack."

"Judge for yourself when you taste them, human." Qa'ara replied over her shoulder. Was that something approaching a devious, mischievous tone she used just then?

Upon reaching the khajiit merchant encampment near the nord town of Helgen, Hans was once again surprised to see members of such a savage-looking, animalistic race gathered together in a manner not unlike human nomads taking a brief respite from their never-ending travels. The idea that beastfolk could be anything but marauding bands of Chaos-worshipping murderers and heretics was contrary to what he was taught in the Order.

"Sha'aziri... oku krakil." One of the cat-people caravan guards clapped another guard by the shoulder, jolting her to full alertness. "Oviit kud, vakota jerno."

The other guard's hand was clasped around an arrow from the quiver by her hip as Qa'ara, Sinfahran, and Hans arrived. "Kssssh, stand away, outsiders." In one swift motion, she nocked the arrow on her bow, drew back, and took aim. "State your business to Sha'aziri, or begone."

"Dras'kay ali jer zath, Sha'aziri." Sinfahran removed his cowl, exposing his face.

The guard instantly lowered her weapon. "Sinfahran. Jer traajirka zath na kono." She couldn't have put her weapon away more quickly.

"Yosan huna ali za'yar." Sha'aziri's fellow guard beside her sniffled from the cold and wiped under his snout. "Ahzirr vabeka takarrka iho renrija zedro tenurr."

Qa'ara pushed past the hopelessly confused witch hunter and her partner. "Jer vabeka _kaaka_ _?_ Sajka iss sallidith? Rik na vabeka domjhahir?"

"Yesho jerno, roliter." The first guard raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Ruja di ahzirr rakiit vabeka domjhahir, bo dov fa vaber var darka."

"Excuse me," Hans announced his presence to the jabbering catfolk. Instantly, all eyes were on his masked face. "I need to know where I can find the one who calls himself Vassa'dar, please. I believe he and I have some "business" to discuss."

The two khajiit guards present only gave him baffled and wary looks, and Sinfahran seemed to take some amusement at the situation, but at least Qa'ara had the decency to look sheepish at forgetting about the witch hunter in their midst.

"Sha'aziri, Ja'zharim, you may know this human by the name of Hans. He is here to work for Vassa'dar for the time being." Qa'ara introduced the witch hunter as forthrightly as she could, deliberately leaving the reason why Vassa'dar deigned to hire him in the first place unmentioned.

While the guards pondered the implications of a human joining the caravan, Qa'ara turned to the witch hunter. "And Hans, you will be working closely with these two. Sha'aziri is the most senior of the mercenaries in charge of this caravan's security, so you will be answering to her for the rest of your stay here. Please try to—"

"Wait just a second!" Ja'zharim interrupted, taking a step forward. "Ja'zharim has heard of the name of "Hans" before. The sellswords in Falkreath couldn't stop talking about him — the drunken fools speak of how he led the small party that exterminated the bandits at Skald's Folly Barrow without taking any losses. They emerged from that barrow covered in blood, and richer for it."

Sha'aziri's eyes visibly widened. "This one is... most surprised. This one didn't think Vassa'dar would be desperate enough to hire _him,_ of all people. Is this human truly...?"

"Yes... I am that which you speak of..." Hans droned, entirely uninterested in where the conversation headed, but eager to move along to doing what he was hired for. "Now can someone _please_ direct me to Vassa'dar?"

"One moment, human," Sha'aziri said, further annoying Hans. "This one has heard that you carry with you these gripped tubes fashioned out of metal and wood, and that you use them to kill your foes from a distance. They say these weapons you hold could change the way wars are waged in Tamriel. Is this true?"

Qa'ara shook her head. "I'm afraid it isn't. Sinfahran and I witnessed him fight through a band of raiders, but not once did he—"

Hans pulled out a pistol from his coat, showing it to Sha'aziri and Ja'zharim. "Here, have a good look. I'm sure you have nothing better to do."

Both guards stared at the weapon, examining it with obvious wonder.

"Such a curious contraption. But how does it work, exactly?" Sha'aziri had the nerve to ask.

"Keep delaying me, and I'll gladly demonstrate it on you." Hans threatened, half-serious. He felt like he was dealing with slack-jawed Stirlander peasants whom had never seen anything more advanced than a farm plough.

Sha'aziri, seemingly not caring for the obvious threat, turned to her side. "I need everyone to wait here. This one will return as quickly as her legs can take her!" Faster than most could react, the khajiiti mercenary bolted off and promptly disappeared into the encampment.

With nothing to do but wait, Hans just stood there with a loaded pistol in his hand. He resolved to make Qa'ara and Sinfahran as uncomfortable as possible by staring holes into them.

"You must forgive my colleague — it is not rare for khajiit to become overly curious as they age, and Sha'aziri has seen more seasons than most in this caravan." Ja'zharim said, managing to look apologetic despite his panther-like face. "Your story, in particular, has drawn her fascination quite a bit. Sha'aziri likes weapons of all sorts, oh yes."

The witch hunter sighed. He may have just created the very first Tamrielic gun nut.

"I didn't think I had the opportunity to ask before, but Sha'aziri's questions made me think..." Qa'ara spoke up, her expression contemplative. "Where exactly are you from, human?"

Hans supposed this line of questioning was inevitable. He reasoned there was no harm in telling the khajiit where he was supposed to be. "I come from the lands of—"

"Here we are!" All of the sudden, Sha'aziri reappeared, and to the witch hunter's shock, she had been hauling a whimpering, badly-beaten, heavily-bound nord wearing scuffed leathers along the ground. What's worse, some sadist had placed a bloody sack over the poor nord's head, preventing him from seeing around him.

"This bastard will make a fine target, wouldn't you think?" Sha'aziri shoved the nord to the ground near Hans' feet, forcing him on his knees.

Sinfahran recoiled in surprise as his fur began to stand on their ends, making him look even larger at a glance. "What the— Sha'aziri, who the hell is this? And what have you done with him?"

"What is the meaning of this, sister? Why is this human bound like some kind of wild animal?" Qa'ara's voice was higher than usual, and eyes were narrowed into slits.

"I'm not paid enough to deal with this..." Ja'zharim slowly edged away from the scene, hoping he does so unnoticed.

Sha'aziri laughed. "And I thought the suthay-raht are more clever than most khajiit. Don't you see? This human is restrained like a beast because he _is_ one!"

Hans subtly levelled his gun to point at the deranged khajiit's head. "I demand an explanation." He threatened, voice already dripping with lethal promise.

Before responding, Sha'aziri grasped the sack around the kneeling nord's head and tore it off, revealing a young, blonde-haired man with a heavily-tattooed face bulging from repeated beatings.

"This... boy... was a part of the bandit raiding party that attacked our caravan the previous night. He had the nerve to attack poor Ma'saad, but the clever child was quick on his feet — he led this idiot around the camp, then lured him to us. Needless to say, he went down quickly when faced with opponents who fought back."

At this, Hans felt some of his rage subside. Raiders deserved no mercy, but is this nord truly as Sha'aziri said he was?

"You — sellsword. Stop skulking around in the shadows and hear me," The witch hunter turned and addressed Ja'zharim, just before he could disappear into the shadows. "Your colleague said this unfortunate nord is, in fact, a bandit. Tell me, is she telling the truth, or not?"

Ja'zharim stood frozen in his tracks, clearly surprised at being noticed. He seemed to consider whether he should answer Hans' question instead of just making a run for it, only for the choice to be snatched from his hands by Sinfahran, who blindsided and restrained him in a chokehold.

"Yes, brother, do answer the question our human friend asked." The much larger khajiit said as he practically manhandled Ja'zharim and pushed him back into the light. "Is this nord a murdering bandit or not? Either way, someone's head will roll."

"Sha'aziri tells the truth! I swear it by the gods!" Ja'zharim was quick to answer.

"It doesn't matter if this nord is a bandit or not — nothing justifies torturing him like this." Qa'ara said. "We should release him from his bindings and let him on his way. After everything he endured, he should learn not to raid khajiit caravans again."

Hans shook his head. "How naïve of you, Fährtenleserinkatze. This man could very well have murdered innocents and stolen their belongings, but you would let him walk away with his heinous deeds unpunished? No, that will not do — we must first learn the truth before we could render judgement unto him."

Sha'aziri groaned, audibly frustrated at not being able to see what she wanted to happen. "What more is there to learn? Why can't you just kill this marauding scum? Everything I just said was the unblemished truth!"

"Calm yourself, Wächterinkatze. That is for me to decide." Hans approached the bound nord, intending on hauling him up on his feet.

As soon as the witch hunter touched his fellow human, however, he almost instantly regretted it.

* * *

 _The man struggles up to his feet despite the dirk sticking out from his throat. An axe to his back put him down for good. Your mates laugh alongside you, even as the others begin helping themselves to the man's substantial purse. More hapless peasants wander into your trap. You and your mates kill them all and make a good profit off their valuables. Today has been a productive day._

* * *

 _The woman groans in agony as she drags herself forth, her dismembered legs reddening the snow beneath her. She cries out for the Divines to save her, and pleads with you for mercy, but you have none to spare... not for the weakling milk-drinkers who used to look down on you like lower-class filth. You force her children to watch as you cleave her in half from the waist._

* * *

 _Through reports from survivors, you learn that many of your friends and comrades have been slaughtered by an unknown foe, their bodies hacked to pieces and then burnt to ashes. Your leader calls for retaliatory raids on those she thinks responsible, and you are only glad to avenge your fallen brothers and sate your bloodlust. A thriving hamlet southwest of Riverwood is to be your target, she says. You and your mates loot the place and leave no survivors._

* * *

 _Your next target is a travelling khajiit caravan that should be on the road to Helgen. Some of your mates wonder how the damn cats had anything to do with the deaths of your friends and fellow brigands, but you care not one whit whether they were truly involved or not. The khajiit are not to be trusted, being the savage, thieving, drug-dealing beasts that they all are. The sooner they were all killed and their wretched kind driven from Skyrim, the be_ _tter, you thought._

* * *

 _The khajiit fought harder than you thought, and worse, a contingent of Helgen guards were co-incidentally patrolling the roads nearby. "STOP RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM!", they each shout in a battle-cry as they join the cats in slaughtering your outnumbered company._ _You watch as your mates are hacked to pieces by the tenacious khajiit mercenaries. You and your leader fight side-by-side until she is shafted half a dozen times by a volley of arrows from the meddling guards. Out of spite, you resolve to murder the cat-child that wandered into your path before making your escape... but he is craftier than you think. He leads you straight into an ambush. Your vision descends into darkness as one of the warrior-cats emerges from the shadows and drives a cudgel into the back of your head._

* * *

 _You lost track of time. You know nothing but pain and darkness. Light enters your vision, and for a while, you feel hope that you are being freed from this hell you find yourself in. Your hopes were dashed when you feel a clawed, furry hand wrench your mouth open and force a sweet, sweet liquid down your throat. Even as they begin their tortures anew, for a while, you feel yourself at peace._

* * *

 _Once you regain your senses, the first thing you see is a freak wearing a demonic bird-mask over his face staring back at you, his orange lenses burning right into your soul. Fear washes over you as you pray for the Nine Divines to save you from this creature. Whatever tortures could he have in mind for you, even after everything you've already endured?_ _Y_ _ou wish for more of the sweet fluid._

 _He reaches for you. As soon as his cold touch brushes your skin, you feel the most excruciating pain you've ever experienced in your life. Even in the throes of agony, a sinister force kept you from falling unconscious, sadistically feeding off of your exquisite suffering._ _You could feel it sustaining itself, gorging on the very fabric of your immortal soul... with growing horror, you realise it is slowly regaining its diminished powers bit by bit._

 ** _"Greetings, kinsman. How fares noble Vanhaldenschlosse?"_**

* * *

Gasping, Hans stumbled back and away from the nord, who was by now reduced to a howling, convulsing husk of his former self.

Qa'ara was beside the witch hunter in an instant, steadying him before he could lose his balance and fall. "Human? Human! What the hell just happened to you?"

Hans clutched his head through his mask with both hands, trying desperately to comprehend what manner of eldritch monstrosity he had just been forced to bear witness to. Only through sheer force of will did he avoid shattering his already fragile mentat state then and there, and find clarity among the unrelenting maelstrom of horrifying images overtaking his mind.

"I see now what must be done," The witch hunter abruptly dropped his arms and gently pushed Qa'ara aside. Before she could protest, he took aim on the captive nord with the pistol in his hand and noisily cocked the hammer. "Cover your ears."

Sha'aziri was just about to ask if the human had lost his marbles, until she was interrupted by a loud explosion from the tip of the metal tube he was holding, stunning her into doing as she was told. When the blackpowder smoke cleared, she grinned in delight to find the filthy bandit sprawled on the ground with a new, gushing hole blasted through his head.

"By the gods." Sinfahran looked at the corpse with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"I knew the stories were true!" Sha'aziri seemed tremendously pleased with herself. "Sha'aziri is pleased to be working with this human!"

Hans fixed her a cold look behind the mask as he wordlessly reloaded his pistol.

"You've done enough, sellsword. Just let us through to the camp." Even Qa'ara seemed exasperated with her fellow khajiit's antics.

"Yes, Sha'aziri, they _really_ should see Vassa'dar." Ja'zharim agreed, nodding a bit too eagerly.

"Of course! Go on through as often as you'd like! You have a job to do, after all." Thankfully, Sha'aziri seemed to take the hint, and stood aside for Hans and his company to pass inside.

Sinfahran hazarded a look back before he put his cowl back on. "...getting crazier by the day..." He muttered under his breath as he ambled on.

Qa'ara reached out and put a hand over Hans' shoulder, making him flinch before realising who it belonged to. "If I knew how Sha'aziri would have acted to you, I'd have found another way for us to enter the camp. For what it's worth, this one apologises on her kind's behalf."

Hans sighed, not noticing the pointed glance Sinfahran threw his way. "The guard bothers me not, Fährtenleserinkatze. Let's just find Vassa'dar and do what we came here for."

The khajiit tracker slowly retracted her hand, making Sinfahran heave out an audible sigh. "Are you sure you're going to be fine?"

The witch hunter took a deep breath. His senses refocused, and his mind cleared. "Yes... for now."

Without further ado, the three of them made their way to the caravan master's lodgings, which was a voluminous, larger-than-usual tent of many colours, guarded at the entrance by a solitary khajiit mercenary holding a glaive in his hands.

"Greetings, Amtassar. We would like to speak with Vassa'dar, if you don't mind." Qa'ara hailed the guard.

"Oh?" Vassa'dar's guard seemed confused at something Qa'ara said. "Well, uh, sure." He said, shrugging. Before any of them could pass by him, he took the time to ask, "Why didn't you greet this one in Ta'agra? Amtassar had you confused for someone else for a second there."

"So as to not be rude to the new guy, brother." Sinfahran replied for his mate, whom had disappeared into the tent. He pat Amtassar behind his shoulder and promptly followed after Qa'ara.

Hans doffed his hat to the bewildered guard as he slipped past him. "Good morning."

Inside Vassa'dar's tent, Hans was met with the strong odour of incense and wine. Looking around, he began to remember the time he spent as a part of the late Viscount Leos von Liebwitz's inner circle of retainers, in that this tent seemed to contain all manner of items relating to courtly, almost Bretonnian-like martial pursuits, along with other worthless rubbish that pompous aristocrats would find fascinating, such as rows of gilded tomes, musical curiosities and contraptions, and artworks of debatable quality and dubious comprehensibility.

And let us not forget about the incense and wine.

"Dras'kay. Jer yuj vaba jihatt ahziss ahnurr bekka vaba kud."

Hans looked down to the source of the tiny voice. What he saw reminded him of a child, only this one resembled a talking, bipedal cat.

What a surprise.

"Ahziss kasash jer zedro suta elo vago iss jan hadi. Jer shay dushith, an dat ko vaba gaj ali aro jer vabeka var darka iho iit sallidad." The child spoke in the khajiit tongue.

Unsure of how to respond, Hans stared down at the cat-child, who stared right back.

"Ma'saad! Stop making our guests uncomfortable!"

The witch hunter watched the child scurry off as another khajiit approached from the other side of the tent. This one — judging from the fine silks and the gaudy amount of jewellery he wore, along with his considerable paunch — was Vassa'dar, the caravan master.

"My apologies for the little one. He can be quite a handful." The khajiit's voice was deep, but in a paternal, non-threatening way. "You must be the one they call Hans. It is this one's pleasure to finally meet you, formidable warrior, face-to-mask."

Hans was quick to remove his mask, so as to not be seen as rude. "The pleasure is mine, sir."

The caravan master grinned, then regarded the pair of trackers standing beside the witch hunter. "Ah, Vassa'dar knew he can count on you two to bring this human to our side. Talk to Ranhmirr at his stall, he will provide you with your reward, as Vassa'dar promised."

Qa'ara bowed. "Thank you, master." She turned to her mate. "Come, let us collect what is ours, Sinfahran."

"You don't need to ask me twice, kitten." Sinfahran seemed pleased to see his efforts bear fruit.

Hans watched them depart, leaving him alone with his new employer. Sinfahran nodded at him before he disappeared outside the tent, but Qa'ara went as far as to smile and wave goodbye.

"See you around, friend." The khajiit tracker said, just as she left.

Friends with a potential mutant? The witch hunter scoffed. Temporary comrades, perhaps, but friends? Preposterous. Heretical, even.

Yes. Absolutely heretical.

"We are most auspicious to have those two in our employ." Vassa'dar's rumbling, genial voice shook Hans from his reverie.

"Sinfahran is one of our strongest, most courageous warriors, and Qa'ara is quick of wit and foot, and dependable to boot! Together, they make for an impressive pair of trackers. Heh, it is no wonder they seek comfort in each other's arms."

Hans nodded, somewhat disinterestedly. "Yes, quite the pair, those two. Not many could have tracked a witch hunter."

"Witch hunter?" The caravan master's ears perked up. "Ah, but one must do what one must in order to pay for one's daily food and drink, yes? Vassa'dar is not in a position to judge, for he must also do unsavoury things to ensure his family lives in comfort and good health."

Hans did not like where the conversation headed. "And what, might I ask, do you need me to do, merchant?"

Vassa'dar uneasily shifted his bulk, no longer looking Hans in the eyes. "Vassa'dar does not require you to hunt witches, or whatever it is you do usually for a living. This one admits, he may have deceived you a little, in that he does not truly intend on making use of your considerable skills as a simple bodyguard, no. He has something far grander and far more profitable in mind..."

The witch hunter prepared himself to swing into action. "Elaborate, please."

"It is nothing illegal, this one assures you." Vassa'dar said. "But quite dangerous to most, even to seasoned warriors unused to fighting outside the typical battlefield, oh yes."

The caravan master swiped a rolled-up piece of parchment from a nearby table, then promptly handed it to the witch hunter. "So, with that in mind, my friend... how do you feel about leading more expeditions into dark and incredibly hostile places, where death is a certainty to those who are careless?"

Hans unfolded the parchment and examined it. It took him a while to realise that behind the unfamiliar scribbles and old tea stains, there was a map of the khajiit caravan's route from Helgen to Whiterun then Windhelm, with several locations in between highlighted with red circles and crosses.

The closest of these marked locations was an ancient nordic temple, apparently called by the locals as the Arcwind Point.


	5. An Important Realisation

"What can you tell me about these... "draugr" things we are about to face?" Hans paid little attention to the path ahead as he cleaned the inside of a pistol with a ramrod and a wad of cloth.

Sinfahran wrinkled his nose as he very casually shoved aside a snow-covered, low-hanging tree branch in his way. "You're seriously asking me? I thought the man supposed to lead us into battle should know all about his enemies before taking to the field."

Qa'ara sighed. She ducked under the branch Sinfahran pushed to the side before speaking, "Don't bother asking either of us. We're foreigners to this land, just like you. Neither of us had faced draugr in battle before, and all we know about them is that they are only a little smarter than your average walking corpse."

"Walking corpses, you say?" Hans stuffed the firearm back into his coat and set his orange-lensed glare back to the road ahead. "I'm trained against such things." He scoffed. "But be on your guard all the same."

For the next half hour, the three of them marched along the beaten path in silence as they embarked toward their destination — the ancient, draugr-infested ruins called the Arcwind Point. There, Hans was told by Vassa'dar that he should expect to be met by more of his mercenaries. "Expendable assets", as the portly caravan master had called them.

"Just where did you train to fight, anyway? I've never seen anyone else fight like you do, or carry those strange weapons you take to battle." Sinfahran spoke up again.

The stone-faced silence from Hans was oppressive, enough that Qa'ara also had to speak her mind to ease the tension.

"You're not from anywhere in Tamriel, aren't you, Hans?"

The hunter nodded, after a while. "No, certainly not. I come from the city of Nuln, in the war-torn lands of the Empire of Sigmar, at the heart of the continent known as the Old World. I was trained in a comprehensive arsenal of steel and blackpowder weaponry as a state-sanctioned witch-finder in service to the Sigmarite church, enlisted under the storied ranks of the Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar. Does this answer your question?"

The two khajiit stared at him, unsure of what to say in response.

"So... you're some kind of religious warrior specialising in "finding" witches for your church, in service to another Empire on another corner of the world?" Sinfahran mused, a clawed, cat-like hand holding up his chin in thought.

"Correct."

"And what do you do to the witches you manage to find?"

"I execute them."

There was a long, uncomfortable beat.

"Sounds like a fun way to spend time." Sinfahran remarked, shrugging.

"...uh, if you don't mind this one asking, why were you being sent to kill witches?" It was Qa'ara's turn to ask. "What could they have possibly done to warrant being marked for death by this church of yours? And with the approval of your Empire, no less."

Hans looked behind his shoulder. "I do not know how magic works in Tamriel compared to how it does in the Old World, but over there, being a witch involves harnessing the ever-treacherous Winds of Magic, which always runs the risk of being corrupted by the dark gods of Chaos... or worse, being reduced to a daemon's plaything."

He turned back to the road ahead, but continued to speak. "In the Empire, Fährtenleserinkatze, the mere possibility that a magic user could have already been corrupted by the dark gods to do their foul bidding, or had been possessed by a daemon of any kind is enough reason for templars such as myself to seek out, and summarily execute those we suspect to be responsible, before they can do innocents harm. This is the only mercy we can give to heretics."

"Chaos corruption and daemonic possession? Heretics? I'm afraid I don't understand. And who are these dark gods that you speak of, human?" Qa'ara pressed, appearing genuinely interested and concerned.

Hans was surprised. He learned from Ashryn that knowledge about the four Chaos gods was alarmingly lacking in Tamriel, and to hear that a member of the khajiit — an outwardly beast-like race — seemingly had no clue as to what Chaos even was reinforced some of his lingering suspicions about just how wide the distance was between Tamriel and the Old World. It also reinforced his belief that the khajiit weren't mutants at all, which lessened his unease around them somewhat.

"You should know this, Fährtenleserinkatze." Hans said. " _Everyone_ should know this. But unlike some sins, ignorance is something that can be forgiven. Allow me to educate you..."

For the next hour, Hans told his two catfolk _comrades_ about daemons and heretics, along with the Archnemesis and the four near-omnipotent beings that constitute its heretical pantheon. He spoke of the blood god Khrone and his eternal thirst for the rush of battle and the bloody carnage that always followed after it. He spoke of Tzeentch and the infinite malignity of his endless scheming and manipulations, as well as his penchant for birds and bestowing seemingly-random mutations. He spoke of the hermaphroditic Slaanesh, who inspires his followers to commit the highest, most decadent forms of excess and debauchery in her name, all in the single-minded, completely arrogant pursuit of true perfection. Most of all, he spoke of the sickly-gleeful Nurgle, and how he devoted the majority of his templar career into purging the Rotfather's bloated, plague-bearing minions in wherever unfortunate corner of the Empire he found them spreading their festering, pustulent "gifts" in.

While Sinfahran seemed to only pay partial attention to him, mostly whenever his narration verged into the battles he had been in the wars he had participated in, Hans was pleased to see Qa'ara listening attentively, so much so, that she barely paid the path ahead any mind.

"Be careful, kitten." Sinfahran stopped Qa'ara before she could walk into another tree. "This is the second time this happened; keep your eyes ahead."

"Sorry." She rubbed the back of her head. "Hans, your story is... well, it's unique, that's for sure. But can we get back to it at a later time? We still have our own task to do."

"Aber selbstverständlich, Fährtenleserinkatze." The witch hunter nodded.

"What did you just say to her?" Sinfahran narrowed his eyes at the hunter.

"Nothing you should spend your precious time thinking about, Rattenfänger." Hans replied, waving him off. "Perhaps I will tell you some other time, if we live to fight another day, that is."

The journey to the Arcwind Point did not take too long to reach its end. Something did not feel quite right as they approached the meeting spot with the extra mercenaries, however, as they were nowhere to be found.

"This is the place, but this one does not understand. Where's Amtassar, Kharhad and Tsanaea?" Sinfahran paced around, trying to find any signs of his fellow khajiit.

"Maybe they're still making their way here?" Qa'ara suggested as she sat down on a snow-capped log and rested her legs.

"Unlikely. Vassa'dar mentioned before we departed the caravan that the other sellswords left for the Arcwind Point two hours in advance." Hans joined Sinfahran in surveying the area, trusting his senses to alert him of any danger. "Assuming our extra men did not run into trouble, they _should_ be here at the time."

"So what do we do, then? Wait for them to show up? Vassa'dar will leave us behind if we take too long here," Qa'ara said, wrinkling her nose. "And take our pay with him, too."

"This one suggests that even without our reinforcements, we should forge on." Sinfahran drew his axe and hook. "We'll just have to fight extra hard, which shouldn't be too much of a problem, considering our enemies."

"Remember the last time you tried to fight "extra hard", Sinfahran?" His mate chided him. As he opened his mouth to whinge, she turned to Hans. "You are the one in charge here, masked one. What would you have us do?"

This time, Hans was of a similar mind to Sinfahran. He drew his gleaming flammenschwert from his back and let it rest over his shoulder. "This once, I say we do what der Rattenfänger just suggested. Perhaps speed and overwhelming force can tip the scales in our favour today."

Sinfahran's tail swayed behind him, its owner visibly pleased. "Naturally."

But Qa'ara was aghast. She pushed herself up to stand. "Have you gone daft? We can't just go charging into battle like witless nords! We must plan our approach first!"

Hans was already marching out into the open, however. "No plan survives contact with the enemy, Fährtenleserinkatze!" He called out behind him. "What matters is our ability to adapt, and our ability to stand fast in the face of danger. Onward! For Sigmar!"

"Time to earn our pay!" Sinfahran sprinted after the hunter, already swinging his hook over his head.

Instead of a battle-cry, Qa'ara loudly uttered a Ta'agran oath as she ran after the two careless idiots, bow and arrow in hand.

The draugr in the ruins, alerted by the noise coming from the perimeter of their decrepit temple, mobilised to deal with the intruders. Hans saw them coming — conspicuous, unsubtle, and tactically-inept zombies that they were — and sprinted forth to meet their charge head on.

"Dir, volaan!"

The closest of the walking corpses rasped as it raised its mace to bash the charging hunter with it. Hans never let the blow come down, for he had slashed the sluggish corpse in half by the waist before it could, returning it to Morr's embrace.

"Bolog aaz, ma lir! Unslaad krosis!"

Another draugr stepped up to replace its fallen comrade, only to be just as easily dispatched as the first by a decapitating swing from the witch hunter. When more draugr appeared behind some of the ruins, Qa'ara's expert bowmanship ensured that they never managed to get close enough to use their axes and clubs, leaving the slower-moving Sinfahran with very little to sink his axe into.

By the end, it was a travesty... hardly even a battle. The combined might of the emaciated, severely-decayed draugr proved no match for a seasoned Imperial witch hunter supported by two Elsweyr trackers. The Arcwind Point was cleared in less than three minutes, leaving the valuables around the temple free to be seized by the victorious mercenaries.

"Damn it, leave some for me next time!" Sinfahran exclaimed, glaring daggers at Hans. "You just couldn't resist showing off, couldn't you?"

Hans paused from examining a dead draugr and looked up to Sinfahran from his corner of the temple. "I was just doing what my contract requires of me, Rattenfänger." He dismissed the khajiit with a disinterested shake of his head. "It's not my fault these zombies of yours crumble so easily."

Sinfahran snarled angrily as he looked around. "Where's the rest of the undead? Surely we did not kill them all? Kitten, do you see more of these walking corpses?"

"No, we got them all." On yet another corner, Qa'ara was already looting the slain draugr for arrows that could still be re-used. "I guess I was wrong about being cautious... our human just danced circles around them. Tell me why Vassa'dar wanted to give us extra support again?"

Sinfahran growled.

Hans ignored the khajiit as he made his way to the conspicuous-looking chest at the back of the exposed temple. He looked around for any traps before throwing caution to the wind and smashing it open with the warhammer he looted off the draugr that used to guard it, revealing a glimmering trove of gold, rare and ancient wines, as well as other relics that could prove valuable to collectors and antiquarians.

"Das sollte ausreichen, um den fette Schwein glücklich zu machen..." The templar muttered to himself as he tossed the cold warhammer aside.

Together, the three of them continued to comb the area for any more objects of interest, but besides the chest Hans looted, there seemed to be nothing more to be taken from the Arcwind Point.

"Ugh, might as well have a drink..." Sinfahran lifted one of the bottles he "liberated" from the draugr chest and examined the faded label by the light of the sun. Seemingly satisfied by what he read, he made short work of the seal around the neck of the bottle using his claws.

"Are you sure drinking that poison is wise?" Hans droned, already knowing that he was going to be ignored. "It could liquify your innards, for all we know."

"Fortune favours the bold, oviit." The khajiit tipped the bottle over his mouth. "Down the hatch!"

Hans prepared his pistol to mercy-kill this poor fool, only for both men to be interrupted by the sound of Qa'ara's voice.

"Hans! Sinfahran! Come here, there is something you both need to see!"

"Treasure, I'd bet. My woman has a good nose for interesting things." Sinfahran wiped his mouth and licked his lips... or whatever it was he had in the place of lips. "Hmm, that was good. Much better than most of the swill I drink."

Unexpectedly, he extended the bottle to the hunter. "Drink up. Maybe this will make you stop being so insufferable."

"Perhaps _after_ we return to the caravan? I'd like to keep my senses intact while out in the field." Hans nonchalantly pushed the bottle back. "No time for dawdling. Let us see what your mate had been up to."

As it turned out, what Qa'ara found was not something they could sell, at least... not to any reputable merchant.

"This is a lot of blood." Sinfahran stated the obvious, looking at the red splatters decorating the snow before them. "And not just any blood, too." He added, a dangerous, predatory growl to his rasping voice.

"What's so extraordinary about this blood?" Hans dared to ask.

Qa'ara stood straight. "This... this is khajiit blood, Hans. At least one of us ran into trouble here, and _not_ from the draugr. Think on that."

Hans took a brief while to come to a realisation. "Vassa'dar will not be pleased to hear this. Who could have done it?"

"The least we could do is find out who the culprits are. We owe Amtassar and the others that much." Qa'ara said, sounding deeply affected by the apparent fate of the sellswords.

"We can do more than that." Sinfahran turned to his mate, eyes burning in barely-restrained fury. "We'll find the bastards, and kill them. I already have their scent, and the tracks should lead us to our foes. Come on."

Hans did not object to having his command taken from under him as he followed after the two khajiit. To his own surprise, he found that he'd also like to see those responsible for this attack brought to justice, preferably by the sword.

It didn't take too long for Sinfahran to reach the end of the trail he was tracking. Unfortunately, there were no possible culprits in sight... only the dismembered corpses of the three khajiit sellswords they were out to seek vengeance for.

"Divines above..." Qa'ara shook her head as she knelt down and examined the bodies. "They were slaughtered... didn't even stood a chance." Out of the three, she seemed the most affected to the deaths of her colleagues.

"This looks like the work of bandits at first glance," Hans also bent down, noticing the tell-tale signs of injuries made by stabbing and hacking weapons on the blood-spattered bodies. But something about them did not add up. "But look closer; see how their possessions appear untouched from the moment of their deaths? This is not something brigands would do."

Sinfahran seemed too furious to comprehend what Hans had said. The khajiit looked like he was all but ready to tear his claws into someone.

After a while, Qa'ara regained her composure. "I agree. We should take a closer look on the bodies — strip them of their gear and look for clues we can use."

Hans nodded, and moved to do so. But first, he checked up on Sinfahran. "Rattenfänger... you need to calm down. Anger is good, but rage is unpredictable, and I cannot tolerate unpredictable elements in my retinue."

The cathay-raht snarled at Hans, audaciously baring his fangs at the hunter.

Unimpressed, Hans stood his ground. "You're only proving my point, khajiit. Control yourself, before I am forced to restrain you."

Before the situation could escalate, Qa'ara intervened. "Sinfahran, Hans is our leader. Please listen to him — we should be looking for the ones that did this, not quarrel amongst ourselves."

At his partner's soothing words, Sinfahran appeared to deflate a bit. He exhales harshly through his nose. "I just want to make the murdering scum pay for murdering our friends. They deserved better than this."

"Your friends will be avenged." Hans assured him, his tone grave. "I swear it to Morr. But picking a fight with me won't do you, or them, any favours. We still need to find out who did this first, and where have they gone. Now, if you'll excuse me a moment..."

Hans returned to work. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to be assaulted with the memories of the khajiit as soon as his hands brushed their skin. When he reached out to remove a dead sellsword's cuirass, however, the corpse's hand suddenly lashed out, grasping his outstretched arm.

The witch hunter recoiled in shock, momentarily frozen on the spot.

"Not... bandits..." The mortally-wounded sellsword gasped out, drawing Qa'ara and Sinfahran's attention. "Fight... too organised... weapons... too sharp... new..."

"Kharhad!" Qa'ara immediately shifted herself beside Hans. "No, don't speak! We'll get help soon, just rest and conserve—"

"Too late... it's too late... for this one..." The sellsword spoke with obvious difficulty, due in no small part to his slit throat. "Need you... to find... who did this... need you... to _kill_ them... make them pay..."

For a dying khajiit, Hans felt his arm sting from the strength of his grip. "Who did this, mercenary? And where did they go?"

"East... they headed somewhere... east of here..." The sellsword said. He closed his eyes. "Kill them, human... piss on their corpses... show them that... show them..."

The khajiit stilled, and his grip on the hunter's arm went slack.

"Ravens speed your soul to Morr's embrace." Hans gently let down the corpse's hand from his arm and stood up, giving his companions purposeful looks. "I believe we all know what must be done."

Qa'ara stared at her friend's corpse. After a while, she too stood up. But unlike before, her blue eyes blazed with cold, tranquil fury. "We will find whoever did this... and we will leave none alive."

"As we should, Qa'ara." Sinfahran nodded. "Time to move. Lead the way, oviit."

The hunter wasted no time as he began the journey east. It took the better part of an hour of footslogging through the untamed Skyrim hinterlands and a few close calls with the local wildlife before the three of them came across what appeared to be a camp, just recently set up.

"This is not something we can rush into, like we did with those draugr. We have to tread lightly if we are to return to the caravan in one piece." Hans said, under the cover of shadows. Below them, he could see the faint outlines of nords milling about by a campfire. "Might I suggest speaking to them as our first course of action? After all, there exists the possibility that these people have nothing to do with the deaths of your comrades."

"What makes you think these humans would be willing to talk to us?" Sinfahran huffed impatiently.

"He's right. If these nords turn out to be our killers, who's to say they won't just feather us with arrows as soon as they see us coming?" Said Qa'ara.

"We still have to try." Hans was adamant. "I've a plan, but I need you to stay here and wait for my signal. Can the two of you do that for me?"

Qa'ara nodded. "I can wait, but don't take too long. We still have to make it back to the caravan on time."

Sinfahran took a deep breath, calming himself. "Alright. Sinfahran will wait. How do we know you've made your signal, then?"

"You'll know it when you hear it." Hans spared one last reassuring glance at his comrades before leaving cover and making his way down, towards the nord camp. As he neared, he made sure to sheathe his weapon, remove his mask, and pull down his cowl.

"Hold there, kinsman!" One of the sentries standing guard hailed the witch hunter before he could come any closer. "You've business with one of us? Are you perhaps the message courier we were waiting for?"

"I'm just a simple traveller." The hunter adopted his best approximation of the generic Skyrim accent and held his empty hands up for the nords to see, to show them that he was no threat. "Can I warm myself on your fire? I can't feel my nose, or my hands."

"You'd be welcome to, stranger." A woman relaxing by the fire piped up, smiling gently. She pointed toward the piece of meat being roasted over it. "Help yourself to the venison, if you're hungry. We're always glad to help fellow nords in need."

For a while, Hans thought these people couldn't be the ones he and the khajiit were looking for, given how kind and hospitable they were. He considered politely retracting his request for warmth and just walking away... at least until he began to notice that these nords all seemed dressed for battle, with most being equipped with half-plate armour and steel weapons. Most damning of all, he soon noticed that one of the other sentries seemed to be in the middle of cleaning a bit of blood from his halberd before the hunter showed himself at their midst.

"Thank you so much, friends." Hans made his way to the camp, directly next to the fire.

"So, where are you headed, handsome? I like the outfit, by the way." The woman from before spoke up, shifting herself closer to the hunter.

Handsome? He hadn't been called that in years. "Thank you. I hope to make it to Winterhold. I've family there, you see." A pause. "What about you fellows? You look like you're marching off to war."

"You could say that, brother." One of the other nords at the other end of the camp replied, even as he drove his axe into a huge chunk of firewood. "We're all headed for Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak's assembling a militia to retake Markarth and the Reach from those damned bretons, the so-called Reachmen. You should think about signing up with us — it's a worthy cause for all nords."

Hans affected a chuckle. "Aye, perhaps I'd think about it. Thank you for the offer."

Silence reigned for a bit as Hans examined all potential exits around the small camp. Looking around, he could see that the nords outnumbered him nine-to-three, and they seemed much better equipped compared to his khajiit companions. He chose to follow his own advice and tread lightly.

"You know, before I passed by here, I happened to come across some dead khajiit by the woods to the west..." Hans began, and in an instant, all eyes were on him. _Perfect._ "I just thought I'd let you know. The things that killed them may still be prowling around these parts."

More silence as everyone slowly and awkwardly returned to what they were doing, save for the woman next to the witch hunter.

"If I may ask, friend, what is your opinion on the presence of the khajiit here, in Skyrim?" She inquired, as innocently as she could sound.

Hans already knew where this conversation was headed. Like any templar in his situation, he sought to control it before he was compromised.

"I... I really shouldn't tell." He tried to sound coy.

"Come on, kinsman, you're among friends here. We can keep a secret." The woman insisted.

Hans pretended to be persuaded. "Well, if you say so. To be honest, I think they're not good for Skyrim. Thieves and drug-dealers, the lot of them. It's probably for the best if they leave the province altogether and return to Elsweyr."

"Return to what?" One of the nords piped in, confused. "Never heard of that place."

"Andgruuf, you idiot, he means the khajiiti province, where the damned cats came from." Another exclaimed, delivering a slap to the back of his comrade's head for good measure.

The woman did not seem too displeased with Hans' answer. Quite the opposite, in fact. "Ah, so here we have another nord who can see clearly! You are wise to be suspicious of the khajiit, brother, for their kind cannot be trusted."

She spat into the fire, disgust plain in her melodic voice. "Fair and noble Skyrim has no place for their kind, or anyone else who isn't a nord. Any foreigners who refuses to return to whence they came should be killed where they stand. They are no longer welcome here."

"You can't possibly mean..." The hunter feigned surprise and injected some false cheer into his voice. "It was _you_. You are the ones who killed those khajiit!"

"Isn't it obvious, kinsman? Those skooma-swilling cats had it coming." The burly nord chopping down firewood casually replied.

"If only they listened to us when we told them to return to Elsweyr, then we might have let them walk away with their lives." The woman said, also as casually.

Hans smiled at her, making the woman smile back. In truth, the hunter was appreciating the irony of how he was about to kill his own kind in order to avenge some dead khajiit mercenaries he hardly cared about. Still, the witch hunter took comfort in the fact that he was still dealing with bandit scum. Heavily armed and armoured, prejudiced bandits with an agenda, but bandits nonetheless.

"May the ravens alight upon you, nord." He uttered, making the woman blink in confusion. Before anyone could react, the hunter whipped out a pistol, pressed it against the startled woman's unprotected forehead, and pulled the trigger.

All hell broke loose.

* * *

"Letting him go down there was a mistake," Sinfahran groused. "We should've just taken the camp by force — hit the bastards hard before they could mount a proper defence."

"And what if these nords turn out to be innocent travellers? Is your conscience willing to put up with the realisation that you've murdered people whom had nothing to do with our comrades' deaths?" Qa'ara frowned, finally tiring of her mate's bloodthirstiness. "The human is wise to suggest that he should speak with the nords first. I can see why Vassa'dar put him in charge, and not either of us."

"Ugh, why are you always so quick to defend him?" Sinfahran grumbled, scratching his jaw.

"Because he looks like he knows what he's doing." Qa'ara replied, annoyed. "And he saved our lives. _Twice_ , in your case."

Sinfahran's eyes widened ever so slightly. "I suppose you have a point." He sighed. "This one admits, he might just be feeling... jealous."

"You will be as powerful as a warrior like Hans one day, my mate." She assured with genuine warmth, turning her gaze back to the nord camp below.

"...I wasn't talking about that." Sinfahran denied, shaking his head a little too forcefully to be sincere. "Well, I _might_ be talking about that, but not entirely."

Qa'ara sighed. Ever since Hans arrived to work at the caravan, her mate had been restless. "What else about our human can you be so jealous about?"

Sinfahran opened his mouth and said something, but Qa'ara didn't hear it over the distinctive crack of a firearm she heard coming from down the camp, followed by alarmed shouting and screaming.

* * *

Before the smoke even cleared, Hans had thrown the pistol away, sending one of the startled nords scrambling back and cursing up a storm as the spent firearm's hardwood grip flattened his nose. With one swift motion, swifter than his foes could react, the hunter's other hand drew another loaded gun from his coat, took aim, and fired. His shot blasted a hole into a second nord's throat.

"What have you done?!"

A third nord scrambled over the writhing, gurgling body of his comrade to have at their attacker with a freshly-drawn longsword. Discarding his spent weapon, Hans dashed a step back and smoothly evaded the man's predictable initial swipe, then immediately reversed course and floored his opponent with a well-aimed punch to the abdomen, then to the jaw.

The rest of the nords, realising they were being attacked by an overconfident madman in their midst, immediately drew their weapons and advanced forth to cut off his exits.

"You made the last mistake of your life, blackguard milk-drinker!" One of them taunted as he circled the hunter with his mates, banging his warhammer into his shield as he did.

"What the hell are you hoping to accomplish here, you son-of-a-bitch!" Another exclaimed as he dragged his fallen comrade away, ignoring his slurred protests all the while. "Are you after our things? Do you work for the Thalmor? Oh, I fucking bet you do!"

Hans said nothing and merely adopted a combat stance after unsheathing his zweihänder, wordlessly imploring his foes to test themselves on Sigmar's finest.

"DEATH TO TRAITORS!" A nord finally lost his temper and broke ranks, charging the hunter with an axe in one hand an a shield in the other.

"SOVNGARDE!" Another followed, spear lifted high.

"FOR ULFRIC STORMCLOAK!" And another, holding a halberd.

Hans expected as such. Doubtless his opponents expected him to stand his ground, surrounded as he was. He relished the look on their faces when he subverted their expectations by meeting their charge.

Moving faster than any of his foes could anticipate, the hunter raised his greatsword above his head and surged up to the first nord. Before the man could properly shore up his defences, Hans batted his buckler aside before severing his sword-arm through the gap in his plates. The nord was quickly dispatched by a sword to the ribcage, long before he could even realise what was happening.

The second nord moved to intercept Hans, but he was ready for her. Unsheathing his reddened blade from his vanquished opponent's innards, Hans pivoted to the side, narrowly avoiding being skewered by a spear. Just before the spear-woman could retract her weapon, the witch hunter cleaved it in two by the haft, then used his momentum to cleave the startled nord's legs from under her, messily hewing both limbs completely.

Unnerved by his maimed comrade's agonised screams, the third nord couldn't muster the courage to face the advancing witch hunter. Face twisted in palpable fear, he made to return to his mates. Trying to outrun a veteran templar on the hunt soon proved futile for him, however.

The rest of the nords could only cringe in horror as Hans caught up to their fleeing comrade. Lowering his gleaming, Morr-blessed flammenschwert below his hip, the hunter mustered all his considerable strength as he cleaved upward with the blade, mercilessly splitting his foe's body into halves from crotch to head in a gruesome display of blood, bone, and viscera.

The hunter wiped the blood from his face. He barely had any time to raise his blade before he was set upon by all the remaining nords at once.

What followed next was a complete slaughter as Hans brought the full extent of his martial abilities, templar training, and battlefield experience to bear on his foes. Moving as fluidly as any master fencer, he expertly weaved away from and parried aside most of the blows meant for him, before retaliating in kind. When they struck true, his blows had enough force to sunder flesh and shatter bone, and his enchanted blade made cleaving through shoddy nord armour a trivial task.

By the time Sinfahran and Qa'ara made their way to the nord camp, it was already too late for them to help. Hans jammed his weapon's crossguard deep into the final nord's eye-socket, before pulling back and swiping her head from her shoulders.

It was done. The murdered khajiit sellswords had been avenged.

Qa'ara beheld the aftermath of the hunter's assault with wide and terrified eyes. "You... you killed them all."

Hans went down a knee on the blood-red snow and planted his sword into the ground, panting in exhaustion. "Fährtenleserinkatze... Rattenfänger... you're both late."

Sinfahran did not respond, he merely stared at the hunter as though he committed an unforgivable slight unto the khajiit.

"Are you alright?" Qa'ara warily approached, as though fearing the hunter would attack her next.

Sensing this, Hans held out a hand. "Peace, Fährtenleserinkatze. I mean you no harm."

The khajiit tracker eased her stance. "Are you wounded?" She asked, sounding worried.

"Flesh wounds here and there. I'll heal." The templar stood up, after catching his breath.

"How did you manage...?"

"These nords fought only a little better than bandits, and they were weighed down by armour."

"But how—"

"Luck favoured me today."

Qa'ara bit back another question. Hans figured she could recognise that he was dodging her.

The three of them stood in silence for a while, amidst the bodies.

"We should return to the caravan." The hunter said, putting his sword back in its sheath. "Loot the bodies. Take any valuables you see, but leave weapons and armour behind — they'll only make the return journey even more tedious. Come, time waits for no one."

* * *

Upon returning to Vassa'dar's encampment — located this time near the outskirts of a village named Ivarstead — the khajiiti caravan master was overjoyed to see his "employees" return from their expedition with several ancient nordic relics, a pile of golden coins looted from the draugr, and a modestly-sized chest full of assorted treasures. He was even more pleased to be presented extra loot in the form of a bag full of bloody septims, rare gemstones and other valuables, but his elation immediately soured upon being informed that these things were seized from the bodies of the nords who murdered three of his other mercenaries.

Still, Vassa'dar had been generous with sharing the loot. Hans was given a hefty fraction of the treasure for his performance — twenty percent of the gold, and some ancient nordic wine for his trouble. Qa'ara and Sinfahran made do with fifteen percent each, although Sinfahran didn't seem too pleased with his share.

"You robbed me of my share in blood, oviit." He said to Hans, upon leaving the caravan master's tent. "You may have avenged my friends' deaths, but you left me out of it. Mark my words — I'll make you regret ever taking my vengeance out of my hands."

Qa'ara gaped in shock as her mate stormed off and out of sight. She turned to the hunter, whose face and expressions were once again hidden from sight by the beaked mask and cowl he always wore.

"The ungrateful oaf! I don't know what the hell is he thinking, speaking to you like that. Forgive him, Hans, for he does not mean what he said!"

Hans shrugged. "It is no trouble. I am aware I am not the most social man in any given situation, and it seems I've driven your partner away. Please tell him I apologise if I caused him any offence. It's not my intention to cause a rift between us, you see."

She let out a breath. "I am glad to hear that you hold him no ill will, and yes, I will do that." She laughed, more out of nervousness than anything. "His temper can be... problematic... at times, but Sinfahran is a good man, and I don't want a friend of mine to come to blows with him."

Hans tilted his head to the side. "Friend? You consider me to be... your friend?" He sounded like he couldn't quite believe what he heard.

Qa'ara punched his arm, surprising the hunter. "Of course! After everything we've been through, why wouldn't I think of you as anything less?"

The hunter stood still, not quite certain of what to make of his situation. He was certain of one thing, though: his superiors would like to have an extended amount of time mounting him on a rack, supervised by a priest, a confessor, a hierophant, several templars-in-training, and if they were being uncharacteristically merciful... an executioner.

"Go and have some rest. This one will try to talk some sense into her mate." Qa'ara turned around and left, leaving the hunter to his own thoughts. "See you around, Hans."

Hans took a while to respond. "Bis nachher, Fräulein..."

Days passed by as Vassa'dar's caravan continued on its convoluted route to Windhelm. Over that time, Hans continued to lead more expeditions into other nordic ruins and barrows, and more often than not, he was accompanied by some of Vassa'dar's mercenaries, whom had been assigned to follow his commands.

While Hans often found Sha'aziri's constant prodding and chattering mildly irritating, he was pleased to find that the sellswords were mostly competent, and had little issues with taking orders from a human. Over time, the catfolk hirelings began to recognise the witch hunter's skills and the tactical value he presented into a battle, and soon, he began to build a reputation around the caravan for being a fearsome warrior, and a shrewd and reliable, albeit taciturn leader.

Indeed, there were some of the khajiit who disliked the hunter's abrupt, subtly condescending nature, his reluctance to partake in social matters outside his work, and his flat — some would say rude — refusal to purchase khajiiti goods from the stalls, Hans felt the catfolk respected or feared him enough to give him the space he required in between expeditions.

It wasn't very long until the travelling caravan reached the outskirts of the first major settlement in their route, and the entire province's central mercantile hub: the city of Whiterun. Hans was in the middle of examining the large buildings towering out from the horizon with a spyglass, when the call for the caravan to settle down and start setting up was sounded.

"Human! Come give us a hand — it's time to set up camp!" Dahan, one of the merchants and a tailor in Vassa'dar's employ, called the hunter from his perch atop a tree.

The templar slid the spyglass in itself, pinned it to his belt, and scaled down the tree. Knowing that he had nothing better to do, he decided he could pass the time by helping out with whatever he could.

"Are you sure you are not part khajiit? You climb up and down trees like a natural, outsider." Dahan flippantly remarked as soon as Hans arrived to help.

The hunter received a handful of metal stakes from Dahan's timid nephew. "I am more of a dog-person, myself, tailor." He promptly got to work as he planted them on the grass.

It was nice to walk over something that wasn't covered in snow, for once.

"Ah, dogs. Nasty little things. Always yapping and clamoring for food. This one never saw the appeal to having them as pets." Dahan's wife began connecting the tent poles together.

Hans assisted her. "Schneiderkatze, why is everyone setting down their goods outside the city?" He decided to address Dahan, changing the subject as he did. "Would it not be wiser to set up your stalls inside Whiterun's walls? You'll attract more attention that way."

Dahan, like most of the khajiit, soon recognised the nickname Hans had given him. "You don't know? While individual khajiit usually face no trouble entering Whiterun or any other city in Skyrim, even at a joyous day like this, khajiit caravans are forbidden from setting up shop inside a nordic settlement. Apparently, the humans of Skyrim whole-heartedly believe the stereotypes of our people being thieves and drug-smugglers."

Hans began to assemble the tent frames as soon as he was done with the poles. "Not to reinforce their point, but just yesterday, one of the mercenaries — Likes Fire, I believe she was called by the others — tried to take a bag of shot and gunpowder from me when she thought I was not looking."

Dahan paused working on his stall to give Hans' words some thought. "Well, Dahan supposes every stereotype has a grain of truth underneath all the untruths..." In the end, he waved it off. "Ah, but what is this one saying? This khajiit who tried to steal from you is a mercenary, yes? Every mercenary develops uncontrollable kleptomaniacal urges sooner or later in their careers. Once they see something they like, they cannot resist the impulse to take it, consequences be damned."

The tailor took a deep breath, then seamlessly transitioned back into working on his stall. "As for us budiit, know that you can trust us to make you the finest, most colourful set of clothes for a just and honourable price, no more and no less."

Hans shrugged, not at all interested in Dahan's unsubtle attempts to ply his trade. "So you say, Schneiderkatze."

Soon, Vassa'dar's merchant encampment was back in business. As the first batch of customers began to trickle in from Sha'aziri's checkpoint, Hans found himself loitering about with nothing meaningful to do. Vassa'dar hadn't summoned him to his tent to discuss another expedition he had in mind, which was strange. The portly business-cat always had a ruin or two he wanted scoured clean of anything his merchants could sell.

"Damn it, woman, stop playing games with me! I want my money's worth!"

Quirking a brow, the hunter looked to where he heard the commotion coming from. There, he saw a twitchy, rather ostentatiously-dressed nord arguing with Atahnna, the caravan's resident baker.

"Atahnna extends her apologies, human, but she cannot in good conscience bake more of the substance into your goods." Atahnna said, firmly shaking her head. "Any more of it, and it will be as lethal as any poison to your kind. While this one understands that the festivities today may—"

"I'll be the judge of that, khajiit! Just shut up and put more of the stuff in. I command it!" The man rudely interrupted as he continued to shout and rant.

The baker sighed. "This one's answer remains unchanged, which is still no, nord. And you've already overstayed your welcome. Leave now, before you scare away my other customers."

"Do you know who I am? Do you mistake me for common rabble? I'll have you killed for this!" The nord slammed his fist into the baker's counter and looked like he was about to escalate the situation with violence.

Acting quickly, Hans left his position and intercepted the nord. As soon as he was close enough, the hunter clamped down on the man's shoulder before shoving him away from the stall, almost toppling him over.

"The baker told you to leave, northlander, and leave you shall."

"Mind your own business, peasant!" The nord snarled, drawing his longsword from its sheathe by his hip. "Touch me again, and I'll take your hands!"

Unfazed, the hunter smoothly drew a pair of pistols from his coat and aimed them downrange. "Is this how you wanted to die? I can certainly oblige."

"You wouldn't dare!" The nord didn't seem too intimidated by the weapons. "What the hell are those things supposed to do to me, anyway?"

Hans groaned, annoyed. "This."

Customers and khajiit traders alike gaped at the scene as Hans fired a shot, hitting the belligerent nord's sword-hand, blasting the weapon out of his grasp and blowing off a couple of fingers. Another shot zipped past his head and blew off his left ear, leaving a bleeding ruin behind.

The nord screamed and dropped to his knees, pathetically clutching his maimed hand.

"Consider those warning shots." The hunter smoothly drew a second pair of guns after stowing away the first pair. "Leave now, or die here. The choice is yours."

Whimpering like a dog put in its place, the bleeding nord scrambled back to his feet and quickly made his way out of the encampment. With the situation dealt with, the hunter put his weapons back into their braces in his coat.

Atahnna clapped, deeply amused. "Did you see the look on that idiot's face? Hah! It was priceless!" She returned to work as the atmosphere slowly returned to business as usual. "Thank you for dealing with him, human. Atahnna is glad to have you around."

Hans slowly nodded. "Yes... but if I may ask, what was that "substance" you were talking about? What do you put into that man's bread?"

"Moon sugar!" The baker-cat cheerily exclaimed. "Moon sugar is the key ingredient to all khajiiti baked goods, but alas, Atahnna understands that it is highly addictive, and even lethal in large enough doses to those who are not fortunate enough to be born to the khajiit."

"Ah." The hunter decided he should stay as far away from Atahnna's stall as possible in the future. "Is that why that nord acted the way he did? Good to know."

"All things in excess can't be good for anyone." Atahnna said, trying to sound sagely. "But in moderation, khajiiti baked goods make for the best baked goods in all of Tamriel. Want to try?"

Horrifyingly, she reached out to Hans with a dumpling in hand. The hunter couldn't walk away any faster if he tried.

Once he was far enough from the baker's stall, Hans expelled a breath he was holding in. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised at what the locally-baked bread contained. He took the time to thank Sigmar that he had stuck to eating hardtack and game-meat thus far.

"There you are, human!"

The templar was broken out of his prayers as he was approached by his khajiit "friend".

"Atahnna said you ran off before you could take your "reward" for driving that pretentious nord away." Qa'ara approached the hunter. This time, she was dressed more casually in light shawls and winter robes, but she still carried her weapons and most of her travelling gear.

"I never liked sweets, at any rate." He waved her off.

"I know. That's why I took the liberty of eating it for you." She laughed at his flat expression. "Come, we have the entire day to ourselves before the caravan returns to the road."

The hunter sighed in relief. "Vassa'dar gave us another expedition? Good, I tire of waiting. In which direction are we headed?"

"No, silly, it's the first day of the new year!" Qa'ara replied. "There will be no expeditions today, my friend. Isn't that great?"

"What?" Hans' brows shot up, a little surprised and alarmed. He hadn't realised it was the 1st of Nachexen already. "Shouldn't we be indoors and out of the open? Come to think of it, why haven't we stockpiled any weapons or set up traps around the caravan's perimeter? The dead could be rising as early as the afternoon!"

Qa'ara's ears drooped in confusion. "I... don't think I follow. What are you talking about now, Hans?"

"It's Hexenstag!" Hans exclaimed. He found himself even more alarmed and even a little panicked when his proclamation was only met with more befuddlement from Qa'ara. "Sigmar's teeth, do you realise the danger we are all in? Morrslieb is—"

The hunter looked up to the sky. Shockingly, the heretical green moon was nowhere in sight, despite its penchant for dominating the skies above the Empire every Hexenstag, even as early as the morning hours of the day.

With growing trepidation, Hans realised now that the twin moons he had been seeing every night looked vaguely similar to Mannslieb and Morrslieb from a cursory, disinterested glance... but jogging through his memory revealed several key differences. For reasons that vexed the hunter, he could remember idly noting that "Mannslieb" seemed many times smaller than before, while the much larger "Morrslieb" seemed to have lost its sickly, faintly-glowing green hue, and was much more reddish instead.

The hunter's palms began to sweat at the implications of seeing completely different moons during the evening. _Have_ _my eyes been deceiving me every night?_ He pondered. _Where in the world am I?_

Qa'ara's hand on his shoulder jolted the hunter back into the land of reality. "You've been really quiet, human. Are you unwell?"

Hans shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "No, no, I'm fine. I was just... remembering something. Tell me, what happens every night during the first day of the year in Tamriel?"

The khajiit rolled her eyes as she retracted her hand, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "It's called the New Life Festival, and at night, when everyone has had their fill of celebrating the holiday, they eat as much as they can and drink to their heart's content. Best of all, the drinks are all free until the next day."

Hans was gobsmacked. He was glad for the mask that hid his expression. "By the gods... you can't... possibly m-mean..."

The hunter uneasily cleared his throat, steeling himself to say what needed to be said. "Fährtenleserinkatze, do you mean to say that in the coming evening, there would be _no_ threats of random mutations, the spirits of those whom had gone before would _not_ come to terrorise their descendants, and the restless dead will _never_ rise from their graves to assault the living?"

Qa'ara laughed. "Is _this_ what happens during the first night of the year in this Empire of yours? Gods, Hans, no wonder you're such a terror on the battlefield. Forget magic — even your holidays have a tendency of killing you!"

Hexenstag was no laughing matter. Other "holidays", such as the dreaded Geheimnisnacht, even more so. But for the life of him, Hans couldn't figure out why he suddenly burst into a bout of uncontrollable hysterics, clutching his head in his hands with his wild-eyed gaze fixed to the sky.

Actually, he _did_ manage to figure it out, amidst his bout of demented laughter. It was because of the creeping realisation at the back of his mind about the maddening possibility that ever since he was banished from Sylvania, he was already cursed to wander these Sigmar-forsaken lands for the rest of his life, not knowing just how vast the distance was between Tamriel and the Old World... which may as well be in another plane of reality altogether.

Eventually, Hans forced himself to stop laughing. His resolve may have been seriously tested this day, but he _will not_ break. Not today, where these people can see a proud son of Sigmar reduced to his knees, howling and wailing like a broken man.

"Let us begin with this festival of yours, Qa'ara." Hans said to his companion, his voice hoarse and his expression grim. It was as though he was about to charge into an entire coven of vampires by himself. "Damn the consequences, and damn those who will judge me for it. Today, I am drinking myself into a stupor."

The khajiit dropped her look of confusion and concern and replaced it with excited delight. "That's the spirit! Come on, let's try to make it inside before the crowds do. Follow me!"

* * *

The city of Whiterun was as grand as the books and stories suggested. In the so-called Plains District, rows upon rows of quaint nordic houses lined the city blocks, guard outposts dot every corner and seemed well-staffed, and businesses and taverns crowded with citizens and visitors of all shapes, colours, and sizes.

Today was different, however, in that the streets were decorated with lanterns, colourful banners and flags, balloons, wax candles, and empty tables soon to be filled with piles of food and trays of mead and ale. All the while, musicians played tunes around city corners, inebriated celebrants toasted their tankards and sang along, and fools plied their trade by entertaining passers-by with jokes and illusions. Even the local guards took to wearing colourful uniforms for the festivities.

"Sigmar, I hate this place already." Beside Qa'ara, Hans grumbled. His shoulders were slumped, and he sounded none-too-pleased.

The khajiit figured something was bothering her friend and making him much more brooding than usual, but she decided not to bring it up and agitate him further, especially at a joyous day like this.

"Oh, don't be such a child." She mock-chided. "We should take advantage of the drop in prices at the markets. Maybe we'll find something nice to take with us!"

"I doubt it." Qa'ara's human companion continued to grouse, but thankfully, he followed after her.

The markets were blessedly still manoeuvreable, but still crowded. The two of them were forced to move at a snail's pace as they made their way through the sea of people.

"Where has the Rattenfänger gone, if I may ask?" Hans shouted over the clamoring of the crowd around him. "Shouldn't you be doing this with him instead of me?"

There he was with his strange nicknames again. Qa'ara remembered to ask the human about them; she still wanted to find out what hers meant.

"Sinfahran would _never_ be caught doing this with me! He'd rather be brawling with his hireling friends over at some back-alley tavern rather than endure an hour of browsing the market stalls with his woman!" She looked behind her shoulder and shouted back.

"That does indeed sound like what your other half would do!" Hans replied, casually brushing aside an irate breton woman whose eye he almost poked out with his beaked mask. "Would you like to find where he is, anyway? I still feel as though you should spending this day with your partner!"

"We'll catch up to him out here sooner or later!" Qa'ara weaved aside a stampeding herd of burly nords carrying heavy crates filled with goods for the holiday. "He has a habit of turning up at the last moment! He's such a sweetheart, isn't he?"

The witch-finder likewise moved out of the nords' way before he was trampled. "Better to turn up late rather than not turn up at all, I suppose!"

Qa'ara and Hans spent most of the morning browsing through the Whiterun markets. While the hunter seemed reluctant to spend his coin on anything the local shopkeepers had to offer, the khajiit had already stuffed several bags full of novelty food, souvenirs, bundles of steel-tipped arrows and other baubles and curiosities she found interesting. The only thing Hans had bought seemed to be extra rations for the road ahead.

"What a productive morning that was!" Qa'ara happily exclaimed as she set her bags down and sat down on a public bench.

"I can see why Sinfahran would try to avoid you during holidays." Hans also set more of Qa'ara's bags down, but chose to remain on his feet. "No offence intended, of course." He was quick to add.

"None taken," She nodded, smiling faintly. "It's not the manliest, or most exciting thing to do, I know."

The witch-finder pried his mask off, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, closing his eyes as he did. Qa'ara couldn't help but notice how troubled the human appeared — a far cry from his usual, coldly-assured self.

"Is there something you are not telling me, Hans?" She took the risk in asking. When she was met with silence, she thought dithering would only make things worse, and decided to press forth. "This one can tell when something has been bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?"

He pulled down his cowl and ran a hand through his curled, unkempt hair. "No, no. I'm fine. Thank you for your kind offer, but I feel like this is something I feel I must deal with myself."

The human turned to the khajiit, smiling wanly. "Besides, I don't want to burden you with _my_ woes. I certainly hope you understand, Fährtenleserinkatze."

Qa'ara slowly nodded, a little disappointed. "Of course, it's no trouble at all."

An awkward moment of silence passed between the two.

"Is now a good time to drink?" Qa'ara could hear the hesitation in Hans' voice.

She chuckled. "Yes, I believe so."

It was quick. To the right-hand side of the market, a freshly-painted, nigh-untouched tavern called the Bannered Mare was conveniently located. Entering it was a relatively simple affair, but finding a place to sit was near impossible, what with all the drunks and celebrants and drunk celebrants loitering about.

"Hello, and welcome to the Bannered Mare!" A young barmaid was blessedly quick to arrive, all cheerful and smiling. She didn't seem to notice Qa'ara at first, but she was quick to address Hans. "You have the look of a warrior whom had more than his share of battles, kinsman. Is there... something I can help you with?"

"A table and some privacy would not be unwelcome, nord." When Hans said nothing, Qa'ara answered for him. She noticed the way the barmaid glanced at her suspiciously, but decided against bringing it up and drawing unwanted attention.

"Please wait your turn," The barmaid said, curtly. Before Qa'ara could protest, she returned to addressing the hunter. "Now, is there anything you want me to get for you, handsome? A drink, maybe?"

"I come with the khajiit, Fräulein. Find us a secluded table for two, if you don't mind." Hans finally replied, drawing a surprised, incredulous look from the woman.

"Are the two of you... you know," The barmaid dithered, making all sorts of gestures with her hands. "Um, on second thought... never mind. Follow me, let me see if I can get some of these louts to crowd up some other tavern."

The maid seemed to be quite proficient in yelling at drunkards and getting them to leave, if nothing else. Soon enough, an isolated table in the far corner of the tavern was cleared, allowing Qa'ara and her human companion a place to rest their legs and set their bags down.

"I'll get you two something to drink in a moment," The barmaid said before she departed. "Enjoy your stay, and do come back AFTER the festival. Divines know we need the coin..."

Qa'ara rolled her eyes at the maid as she left. "This tavern smells new, does it?"

"The paint is still fresh, and dust is nowhere in sight." Hans absently nodded, arms crossed and grey eyes vacantly staring into the void. "The proprietors are using the festivities to promote their establishment... that much is obvious."

Before the infuriatingly-elusive witch-finder could lapse into another bout of uncomfortable silence, Qa'ara took it upon herself to take the initiative. "You know, the three of us had been working together closely for a week now, but the more I think about it, the more I realise that neither Sinfahran nor I hardly knew anything more than a name..." She paused. "Err, about you, I mean."

Hans focused his eyes to her. "Is this an interrogation?"

The khajiit's eyes widened in shock. "What? No! Why would you think—"

"Calm yourself, Fräulein, I meant that in jest." The witch-finder put up his gloved hands in mock-surrender. He laughed a bit at Qa'ara's irritated glare before settling down.

"Heh, I haven't been the most sociable man in Vassa'dar's employ. I never talked this much before, back in Sigmar's Empire. I suppose I haven't truly felt the need to, since everything made sense, and I've little opportunities to make permanent allies."

"Why is that?"

"Because they all die. One way or another, they all die in the end."

Qa'ara flinched, regretting that question. "This Old World must be a dangerous place."

"More than you realise." The witch-finder solemnly nodded. "You are most fortunate to be born in Tamriel, Qa'ara. It may seem like dangers lurk at every corner and peace may seem scarce here, but to me, Skyrim had been downright _tranquil_. War and death had always been constants to me, ever since I cast down the trappings and hedonistic frivolities of my nobility."

It was then that the barmaid returned, holding a tray filled with overflowing tankards of watered-down ale. But who would turn down free alcohol?

Hans took a deep breath as he eyed the drinks the maid had left on the table. "But I digress. You are hoping to learn more about me, yes?"

Qa'ara nodded, gripping hee first tankard in her hand-paws. "I'm just curious. I don't mind if you don't want to share."

The witch-finder smiled warmly. Certainly a rare sight.

"Listen close, then, for I'll make this as brief as I can. My name is Johannes van Hal, and I am the second son of Kristoff van Hal, a member of one the Empire's ancient aristocratic lines, and Liliana von Kreutzhofen, a wealthy baroness. Being the spare heir to my father's titles, I spent most of my youth..."

For the next few hours or so, well until dusk, Qa'ara listened intently as her friend told her of his younger years growing up in a nobleman's court. As a child and later an adolescent, Hans apparently lived a very sheltered and pampered life, where anything he desired, he got. His extravagant lifestyle continued up to early adulthood, where his hedonistic impulses worsened until he finally embraced his family's ancestral duties and became a templar — a witch _hunter_ , as he called it.

And as a witch hunter, Hans apparently was responsible for many atrocities that repulsed and took a toll on his mind, but were nonetheless necessary to uphold the greater security of his Empire. He told her of the many battles he had to face, all the wars he had to involve himself in, and the otherworldly creatures and empowered cultists he had no choice but to test his mettle against. Life in the Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar was cruel, unforgiving, and fraught with danger... but the thought of seeing the fruits of his crusade and ultimately coming one step closer to redeeming his family name kept Hans moving forward, strengthening his resolve.

"My last endeavour was the purification of a fortress in Sylvania, the same one my blasphemous ancestor constructed using labour from the dead." Hans took an extended draught out of his beer. By then, the witch hunter had gone through more than half a dozen tankards and seemed no worse for wear.

"As it turned out, my ancestor still lingered on as a malevolent shade with delusions of grandeur, and he used his heretical sorceries to send me and his fortress to Skyrim, in the middle of Falkreath Hold. I nearly died of my wounds, but I was fortunate enough to come across the Nirdils on my way out of the fortress."

The hunter finished his drink and carefully wiped his mouth.

"And that, Fährtenleserinkatze, is how I found myself here. I've been trying to find a way to return to the Empire since then... but I haven't had any luck thus far." He sighed. "Hmm, perhaps one day..."

Qa'ara was struck silent as Hans finished his story. She took a swig out of her own tankard and blinked a few times.

"But... wouldn't you like to stay in Tamriel instead?" She asked, more than a little woozy from the alcohol. "This stupid Empire of yours is a... a shithole! Who the hell would want to live in an awful place like that, where taking a walk down the street can end with your soul being used as a lamp by random necromancers? Wait, wait, wait, I know!"

The khajiit leaned into the table. "Masochists! And, and, fools! Masochists and fools would live there! You wouldn't be either of those, would you?"

The hunter chuckled quietly. "Hm, I might as well be. I suppose duty has a way of making masochists and fools out of men." He sighed longingly, obviously still pining for his precious Empire. "But enough about poor, sad Hans van Hal, the wayward witch hunter. What about the inebriated khajiit sitting across the table from him, hmm? What's the story behind Fräulein Qa'ara von Elsweyr?"

"You... you'd like to know about me? Really?" Qa'ara grinned widely, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded.

"Knowledge is power, Qa'ara. And I just gave you more knowledge than I usually let others have. It's only fair that you do the same for me, no?"

The khajiit chortled. The human continued to surprise her.

Time continued to pass by as the khajiit spilled out everything she could think of about herself to the hunter, with all the slurring elegance of a suthay-raht who was rapidly approaching her alcoholic limit. She started with her childhood and adolescent years in Anequina, as a girl born to desert nomads. There, she was trained by her parents to track down prey through the dunes and badlands using nothing but her senses and the strength in her legs. Life was hard, but rewarding, and the future looked bright for Qa'ara and her family...

But then the Great War erupted between the Cyrodilic Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion.

In a matter of months, Elsweyr became a prime breeding ground for crime and brigandry with the war going on, and Qa'ara's parents were forced to become spies and manhunters for their altmer masters. After many missions behind Imperial territory, they were sent out to attach themselves into the main Dominion force in Cyrodiil, and it was a task that they never returned from.

Qa'ara would never forget the day her parents were presumed dead by their own handlers after the complete and utter annihilation of the army they were assigned to. With nowhere to go and nothing in Elsweyr left for her but bitter memories, she abandoned the province the first chance she got the moment she heard rumours about a merchant caravan planning on leaving Anequina for better opportunities elsewhere, preferably in places the Great War hadn't ravaged.

"And that's... that's how I met Sinfahran... he convinced Vassa'dar to take me on, and the rest... the rest is history." Qa'ara set her drained tankard down the table with an audible thump.

"Quite the story." The witch hunter said, setting aside his own drink. "When I eventually return home, I think I'll remember you, Fährtenleserinkatze."

"Awww, thanks. That's awfully kind of you, Hans." Qa'ara replied, her smile never leaving her face. "And I think I'll miss you, when you leave. Just... just promise me you won't die out there, okay?"

"Heh, I promise." She could tell he was holding back sardonic laughter. He raised a fresh tankard. "Let us dedicate a toast to insincere promises, then?"

"Here's to dying in battle!" She raised one of her empty tankards and toasted it with her friend. Surprisingly, the celebrating nords from the other tables raised their tankards too. "And to a fresh new year!"

"Zum Wohl." Hans said, quietly amidst the deafening cheers and slurred shouts of 'To Sovngarde!', and 'To a new year!'.

* * *

The arrival of the evening was heralded by a choir of singing Whiterun guardsmen in front of the Shrine of Talos. Qa'ara had to admit, it was a little comical seeing them creating melodies filtered through the steel helmets they always wore.

Actually, everything she looked at made her laugh. Even the clumsy redguard bumping into her and spilling his drink into her robes elicited a fit of giggling from the inebriated khajiit.

"I think you've had a little too much to drink, Fräulein." Suddenly, Hans was beside her, helping her steady her wobbly gait and posture. "I do not envy the state you are going to be in, come the morning."

The khajiit unconsciously leaned into the hunter. The scent wafting from him was a heady mix of aromatic odours, like lavender and mint. She tried to ask him why he smelled so fragrant instead of reeking of alcohol like her, but all that came out of her mouth was incomprehensible slurring.

The hunter snatched an empty tankard from a table they walked past, then emptied the contents of a flask from his belt into it. "Drink this, please. I'd rather not carry you to the caravan in addition to all our things."

Well, since he asked so politely.

As soon as Qa'ara tipped the cool, bitter-tasting fluid from the tankard down her mouth, almost instantly, she felt sharper, a little more alert. Her legs stopped being so hard to control, and soon, she was walking on her own again.

As soon as they walked out of the Whiterun gates, the freezing midnight winds were there to greet them. Qa'ara almost immediately started shivering, internally cursing herself for not wearing thicker clothes, the khajiit puffed up her fur and ambled on the beaten path to the caravan.

"You know, Fährtenleserinkatze, I feel as though I must confess something to you," Qa'ara could vaguely hear the hunter speaking up beside her. "I know you must be too intoxicated to hear me clearly, or even respond to what I say, but that is well. Actually, I must also be not in the right mind, considering I never would have admitted this, were I thinking clearly..."

Uncharacteristically, Hans spoke awkwardly, and used much more words than he usually did. His accent was much more pronounced as well, and the way his body tensed suggested he had to work up the courage to say his next words.

"I should start at the very beginning. I mentioned that I worked as a witch hunter, yes? In the Empire, us witch hunters are expected to face numerous foes of all shapes and sizes... and this includes creatures that vaguely resemble men fused with beasts. Your kind reminded me of them, in a way..."

Instantly, Qa'ara felt some of her sluggishness dissipate. She snapped her head to look at Hans, finding him unmoved, his expression hidden behind his armoured, beak-faced mask.

"These creatures used to be human, but are now nothing more than attack hounds employed by the dark gods to carry out their unholy wills. They exist only to slaughter, to destroy, and to defile, and I feel nothing but _hatred_ when I see them, _fury_ as I meet them in battle, and _joy_ upon seeing them die by my hand..."

The hunter raised a gloved fist, clenching it tightly. Indeed, Qa'ara could swear she see the raw contempt blazing from the lenses of his mask.

Then, in an instant, it was gone. The hunter let his hand fall back to his side, his shoulders sagging in melancholy. "I would be lying if I said I didn't envision killing the entire caravan and putting your bodies to the torch. I would do it as soon as I realised you were no different than the beastmen back home. I would do it without any remorse or mercy, and with a smile on my face."

It was disconcerting how low the hunter's voice got. Qa'ara had no doubt he meant every word he said, and it chilled her to her core. If she was a little more clear-headed and a lot more sure-footed, she would consider putting some distance between her and the human as quickly as she could.

"So please," Unexpectedly, Hans' voice took a more pleading tone, even a little desperate. "Please do not betray the trust I am placing in you now. Each day I spend away from the Empire takes its toll on my mind, and I fear I may not be able to return to it again. I beg of you, Qa'ara, do not—"

Perhaps if she was not too drunk she would say something to reassure him, if only to keep him from turning against her next. Perhaps if she had more self-control, she would keep her distance, knowing just how much he enjoyed murdering beast-people in the name of his Empire and his god. Instead, spurred on by liquid courage and the desire to finally shut the human up, Qa'ara closed the distance between her and Hans and promptly enveloped the taller human in her arms by the waist.

Hans' reaction was immediate. He froze on the spot, his body was as stiff as a board.

Eventually, Qa'ara felt the hunter sigh and relax his muscles. "Sigmar preserve me. Disobeying orders, getting my entire retinue killed, associating with elves, and now befriending a beastwoman..." He let his head hang low. "I see now that my brother had always been right... I'd make for a poor templar."

Qa'ara simply held onto the human. Actually, she quite liked how warm he was compared to her environment. Perhaps risking a quick death by embracing the hunter wasn't such a bad idea? It was certainly better than freezing to death while letting him continue jabbering on about—

 ** _TCHNK!_**

The loud, metallic impact noise startled the khajiit into opening her eyes. Before she could realise what was going on, she felt the fur around her arms become wet with a sticky red fluid...

"Get down!" Hans also wrapped his arms around Qa'ara, but only so he could push her into the ground before going down himself.

Eyes slowly growing wide with alarm, Qa'ara watched as Hans unbuttoned his coat and brushed a fold aside, revealing the bloodied quarrel penetrating the cuirass he wore underneath. Above them, she could hear more projectiles sailing past the wind, blanketing their position.

"You are in no state to fight, Fährtenleserinkatze." Hans' distinctive, businesslike monotone returned in full force despite the bolt impaling him clean through the chest. It was disturbing how a man who should be doubled over on the ground in pain seemed to pay little mind to his grievous injury. "You have to run. Get back to the caravan, I'll keep them off you."

Qa'ara tried to find her voice so she could argue, but Hans wasn't having any of it. With nothing but a nod to send her on her way, the hunter unsheathed his sword and bounded out of cover, where he immediately bolted to where the quarrels and arrows were coming from, heedless of the suicidal odds stacked against him.

Knowing that she could do nothing for the fearless fool, and that sticking around would only earn herself a pointless death in this ditch, Qa'ara resolved to alert the caravan of this attack. Moving out of cover and then running as quickly as she could in her intoxicated state, the khajiit prayed for any god who listened to whisk her out of danger, and if possible, keep Hans alive.

Qa'ara trusted her instincts to lead her back to her comrades, as she always had. The road leading to Whiterun was dark and deserted, and may also be hiding other dangers such as wolves and bears, but she did not let these facts deter her as she followed the scent-trail home.

By the time she sighted the smoke columns rising from Vassa'dar's encampent, Qa'ara slowed down her pace, her heart pounding in her chest and her legs beginning to lose their stiffness again. She was barely another step forward, when a great, hulking mass bumped into her from the side, knocking her to the ground in a whimpering, bruised heap.

The khajiit could barely believe her failing eyes as a mounted figure stomped past her before dismounting. By the light of Masser and Secunda, she could see that her assailant was a well-dressed, scowling nord. The left side of his head was bandaged up, along with the hand that held his longsword.

"After I'm done with you, your friend will pay for what he did to me." The nord strode toward the downed khajiit, his blade glinting in the moonlight. "You cats and your damned caravan... thieves and swindlers, the lot of you! All of you will pay!"

Qa'ara tried to pick herself up, but her battered and inebriated body refused to obey. She could only stare up at her killer, even as he lifted his sword to strike her down.

"Let this be a lesson to your kind! Whiterun belongs to my family! I am—"

The nord never got to finish his sentence as a shadowy blur smashed into him from the side. Cursing profusely, the blackguard tried to put some distance between him and his attacker, only to find himself seized by the collar and violently slammed into the tree behind him.

Gasping in pain and rage, the nord swiped his blade against his opponent. In response, the figure re-directed the strike by bouncing it off a vambrace, before rearing a fist and flattening the struggling nord's nose, dazing him.

With its victim pacified, the figure proceeded to rain down a series of crushing blows onto the trapped nord, fracturing bones and blowing out teeth with every wince-inducing strike. It was only until the nord's body was thoroughly battered and his face was a bloody, horribly-deformed ruin did his assailant stop to wrap a hand around his throat. The badly-beaten nord could only groan and gurgle as he was lifted from the ground and off his feet, moonlight washing over him from above.

Qa'ara supposed it was the copious amounts of alcohol in her blood making her see things that weren't possible, but what she witnessed next looked too graphic to be the intoxicated imaginings of her addled mind. The nord suddenly shrieked and began squirming violently against his attacker's unyielding grasp. While he struggled in vain, his flesh seemed to rapidly deteriorate, making him look more and more like a desiccated corpse with each passing second.

The khajiit watched in horror as it happened. The poor nord's screams continued to fill the air for a while, and it was only until his eyes had shrunk down into nothing and his flesh had all but rotted away did the shadowy figure release its victim, leaving his near-skeletal body crumpled in a heap under the tree.

The victorious assailant, appearing as though having just shaken itself out of a trance, took a few steps away from the body. "Sigmar..." He muttered, fear and uncertainty plain in his quivering voice.

Revealed by the pale glares of Masser and Secunda, Hans continued to edge away from the nord's body until his boot snagged itself on an exposed root, making him lose his balance and fall on his back.

Qa'ara stared at the hunter. His scuffed and bloodied longcoat remained unbuttoned, revealing more than a few new holes, dents, scratches and slash marks on the plate cuirass clasped over his torso underneath.

After a while, Hans steadied his shuddering breaths, pushed himself up to sit, and stared right back.

The khajiiti tracker could never forget those soulless lenses as they gleamed in the moonlight.


End file.
